


Oh To Be Young

by notapepper



Series: Science Babies Bein' Babies (Academy & Sci-Ops) [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Bullying, Dorms, F/M, First Meetings, Gen, Haircuts, Laboratories, Laundry, Makeover, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Monkeys, Prank Wars, SHIELD Academy, Sandwiches, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-03 08:05:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 57,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1737389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notapepper/pseuds/notapepper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were children when they found each other, infinitesimal in the grand scheme, a pair of lonely anomalies sitting still on a racing planet. </p><p>FitzSimmons at the Academy (origin story).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

They were children when they found each other, infinitesimal in the grand scheme, a pair of lonely anomalies sitting still on a racing planet.  

* * *

 

By the time Leopold Fitz was 17, he had his first Ph.D.

  
He might’ve gotten one sooner.   _If mum hadn’t needed me to be the man of the house._ Or if he hadn’t spent years ditching class to comb the junkyard for spare parts with his best friend Doug.  In Fitz’s defense, that wasn’t usually his idea -- Doug constantly wanted to take stuff apart and blow it up -- so he really couldn’t be blamed if they got up to some monkey business.  In fact, without Fitz to run quality control, Doug probably would’ve singed off a lot more than his eyebrows long ago.  So as it turned out, Fitz was kind of a hero.  Not that he was bragging.

His teachers back then didn’t seem to care what he was up to either.   _Yeah, not until mum marched down to the school, report card in hand._ Then suddenly it was, “Oh, your son shows such promise, if he’d only apply himself,” and as always, Fitz was the one who got in trouble. How was _that_ fair?

Fitz thought he applied himself fine.  Who else had built a toilet-scrubbing robot at age 12 to avoid getting his hands dirty?  Who’d taken first place in the science fair every year he’d entered?   _Well, except for that mess in ‘98.  Hmmph.  Politics._  It wasn’t like the device didn’t work… it just worked a little too well.  He supposed he should thank the school board for overlooking the damage to the auditorium.  Still, easily a blue-ribbon invention.   _Damned popularity contest._

No, Fitz stretched his brain to capacity every day, devouring textbooks on circuit boards and Euclidean space and fluid dynamics, teaching himself so well that his public-school desk promptly became a prison.   He wasn’t lazy; he just didn’t need to diversify his potential by wasting time on Moby Dick.  And how could he have failed English?   _I **speak** the Queen’s bloody English!_

So when he’d taken his college entrance exams early and been offered a scholarship at MIT, he didn’t hesitate.   _Sorry, mum._  Just as he’d skipped school in his youth, Fitz was eager to trade the stifling environment of his small neighborhood for a daydream of measureless opportunity in the States.  And when S.H.I.E.L.D. had tracked him down at an engineering expo, to discuss his latest invention and lend a hand with the patents, he felt a bit like a long-lost brother stumbling into a family reunion.  After a lifetime of rushing through childhood, Fitz wondered if he’d finally found a place to play.

 

* * *

 

By the time Jemma Simmons was 18, she had her second Ph.D.

  
She’d been one of those precocious babies who stacked the blocks instead of chewing on them, who chimed out a delicate melody when other babies were banging the xylophone against the floor.  Her parents took her on leaf walks in the double stroller, planted a garden with a “Caterpillars Welcome” sign, and taught her that "geology rocks." _Good one, dad!_   They filled her costume trunk with spacesuits and tiaras, stethoscopes and swords.  Together, her family illustrated Pompeii with baking soda and vinegar, flew homemade tetrahedral kites, and concocted a majestic spectrum of Easter egg dyes.

And the books.   _Oh, the books._  With her family's ample library to choose from, it really was no surprise that Simmons became a lifelong learner. She'd discovered them as soon as she could grasp the pages, and never looked back.

Once Simmons reached adolescence, she’d all but outgrown the Mentos and Coke rocket launches that delighted other teens.   _Not quite, though.  Explosions are thrilling!_  She’d been running her own experiments in her bedroom lab for years, using her parents’ connections to obtain rarer and rarer components.  Eventually, she had to stop asking, for fear they would be put on a government threat list.  After that, whenever she watched films Simmons secretly sympathized with the evil mastermind.   _Poor fellow; all he wants is to develop his mad science in peace._

So when she’d earned a place at Cambridge, six years ahead of her peers, it had felt as natural as the turning of the seasons.  For all her family’s support, their lively enrichment of her studies, she knew she needed to continue her journey of discovery among the best professors academia had to offer.   _It’s not that far, mum, please don’t cry._  She still saw them two weekends a month, got cookies in the post and sent back letters replete with photos and excitement.

And when S.H.I.E.L.D. had found her at a medical conference, a few hours after she’d assisted her mentor with a presentation on their new biochemical compound, Simmons’ ingrained curiosity got the better of her.   _I could minor in Extraterrestrial Biology?_ That evening, she walked to her car with her arms full of brochures and her head full of possibilities.  Simmons was grateful every day for her upbringing, but if she was being honest, her success to that point had been a joint endeavor among those who shared her name.  This was a blessing of a different color.  This could be a life of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have this story pretty well planned, and it'll probably be the longest thing I've done. The background / characterization might sound a little familiar, given the number of Academy and Fitzsimmons fics floating around, but I'll try to mix it up when they get into class together.
> 
> Thanks to PurifiedDrinkingWater on FF for the character of Doug. 
> 
> For my take on Fitzsimmons' very first interaction, check out my one-shot, Bubbles.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Simmons was trying for surreptitiousness as she opened the door to the lecture hall and dropped into the closest empty chair, patting her windblown hair and desperately hoping to avoid notice.  A disinterested-looking boy to her left glanced sidelong at her, annoyance written across his jaw.  He didn’t close his laptop, or take the headphones out of his ears, and though he flinched slightly, he didn’t switch seats. What he did instead was move his half-eaten bag of Doritos to the opposite side.  Simmons was a tad horrified.   _No eating in the auditorium -- there are signs everywhere!_ Well, she oughtn’t judge.  Perhaps he had low blood sugar, the poor thing.

Her attempt at subtlety while sneaking in clearly left something to be desired, because Dr. Solomon paused mid-explanation and called up to her.   _Of course._  She closed her eyes briefly.  She should have known he would see her, having grown familiar with his sharp perceptiveness over the past three weeks.  If her heart rate hadn’t already been up from the dash across campus, unintentionally disrespecting her teacher had done it for sure.  Simmons bit her lip nervously, tasting salt.

“Ms. Simmons!  Since you seem familiar enough with this material that you can waltz into my classroom twenty minutes late, perhaps you would be so kind as to explain the doctrine of double effect for your fellow cadets.”

 _Oh, drat!_  She liked the professor, but he did not tolerate disruption well.  “I’m so sorry, sir, my advisor transferred me into this section this morning, and I had to run all the way from--”

“That was not the question.”

 

The guy at her side was staring now, eyebrows pushed together in something akin to recognition, though Simmons was certain she didn’t know him.  She would have remembered, since he seemed to be the only person her age in this classroom of 200+ freshmen.   _Poppycock, Jemma, he probably just has a young face._  He was handsome, in a sullen way, with a strong chin below a wide, pretty mouth that was currently drawn halfway to pouting.  His honey brown hair curled pertinaciously against any set style, and stormy blue eyes peered at her, tightened by indignation.   _Why does he look like a little boy who’s just spilt his ice cream?  Aww..._

“Ahem.”  Dr. Solomon’s command was implicit.

 _Right!  Yes._  Before she could think too deeply about her new desk buddy, Simmons returned her attention to the front of the room.

 

* * *

 

Fitz always sat in the back row, one seat in.  It was the perfect spot -- when the bell rang, he could usually duck out before the locust-like plague of backpacks and crew cuts and occasional pyjama pants swarmed through the double doors.  It was far enough from the teacher that no one noticed if he wasn’t taking notes, and the empty seat to his right buffered him against accidentally touching anyone or having his books trampled.

So when the red-faced girl came in puffing and flopped down next to him like an intrusive sack of turnips, he was tempted to move, and never mind how it would look.  He didn’t appreciate the feel of someone so close to him.   _Ugh, she’s a sweaty one, too._  The heat coming off her scalp was positively disgusting.  She looked like she’d just finished a marathon.   _Not Ops, that’s for damn sure._

The women in Ops were in great shape.  Fitz couldn’t help but observe whenever they did their drills in the North Quad or ran _en masse_ round the perimeter in their tiny S.H.I.E.L.D. shorts.  Not in a creepy way, of course.  Fitz had been brought up right.  He would never ogle anyone, no matter how fit.

To demonstrate, he expertly avoided looking at his new classmate.  Then an unsettling thought entered his brain and Fitz discreetly moved his snack to his left side.   _Good, I don’t think she saw that._  He was just looking out for her, his concern all the more noble because they were strangers.  Going by her tardiness, she seemed like a poor student, and the crunchy Doritos might hamper her focus.  Similarly, as her perspiration level pointed to an unhealthy lifestyle, he didn’t want to tempt her with saturated fats.   _She should thank me, actually_.  Maybe she could thank him by sitting elsewhere next time.

 

Oh, joy.  She’d drawn the professor’s ire for something or other.  Great.  Just great.   _I’ve been flying under the radar for three weeks, and this girl pulls aggro in the first five minutes._  Fitz wished once again that he could’ve tested out of this and anything else resembling a humanities course.  Unfortunately, however, both Vaughn’s “S.H.I.E.L.D. in History” and Solomon’s “Morality of S.H.I.E.L.D.” were required for every freshman at the Academy… and they took attendance.

  
Then she spoke, and Fitz recalled where he’d heard that voice before.  He was suddenly glad he’d hidden his crisps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene relates back to my head canon that Fitzsimmons whispered snarkily at each other during an Orientation slide-show. But they couldn't see each other, and they didn't meet.
> 
> My snarky Fitz and his antagonistic beginning with Simmons, was definitely inspired by knittersrevolt, whose FitzSimmons origin story "Journey to Now" is one of the funniest and best stories I've read, way better than mine. There are a few shared details too, like Fitz's age and the fact that Vaughn teaches history.
> 
> Dr. Solomon is a nod to my old philosophy professor, who I recently found out passed away.
> 
> Shout-out to my girl [TheLateNightStoryteller](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5373487/) on FF .net for Simmons thinking Fitz has low blood sugar.
> 
> I'm working on two stories at the same time, so please bear with me (and go check out my other one, titled Green! It also features a grumpy Fitz.)
> 
> Reviews are just, like, _so_ Raven.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Right.  Yes.”  She smiled, counting her lucky stars that she’d studied ahead. “Double effect is, at its core, a way to deal with the fallout of an action from a moral standpoint.  For instance, people tend to think ‘good’ actions are fine even if there’s a negative consequence, like the side effects of giving someone a lifesaving drug.”

“And?”  That was only half an answer.   _Get it together, Jemma._ Dr. Solomon expected better.  

“And it doesn’t go both ways.  We won’t support a ‘bad’ action even if it has a positive result-- a doctor can’t decide to let a patient die, even if that patient is a murderer and his death could prevent others.”

“And do you agree with this view?”

“I… can’t say I’ve had to think about it much in my life, sir.  I’ve been fortunate that I’ve never had to  question whether my decisions were good or evil.”

“Oh, to be young and see the world in black and white.  So -- you believe in evil, Ms. Simmons?”

“I do.”  She was young, but she wasn’t _that_ young.

“Where do you think it comes from?”

“Honestly, sir?  I’m not sure.  Perhaps some people are just born evil.”

  
The boy next to her suddenly choked into his travel mug, probably inhaling the nacho dust she smelled on his hands -- or so she would have thought, if his cough hadn’t sounded like the word ‘bullshit’.  Before she could stop to wonder if he was laughing at her, he was off on a quiet tangent, looking down as if it made him invisible.

  
“Born evil?” he scoffed under his breath.  “I suppose there’s an evil little bairn somewhere, crawlin’ round his nursery of doom?  What, playin’ with his evil rattle?  Evil posset down the front of his wee bib?  Fillin’ up his nappies with pure unadul--”

She cut him off, confused.  “Obviously I’m not talking about babies!  What a thing to say!”   _He has to realize that mug isn’t soundproof._ Perhaps he had poor impulse control.  She brightened.   _Or a neurological condition!_  Hmm.  Maybe the headphones in his ears gave him a distorted impression of his own volume.   _Or else he doesn’t think anyone can understand him through that accent._

He scowled now, meeting her eyes and talking just loud enough to attract a few looks from nearby students.  “Well, you sound ridiculous.  No one’s ‘just’ evil, you berk.” He made disparaging air quotes, heating her face even more than the flush of exercise.  Simmons cursed whatever instinct had possessed her to sit next to this unpleasant young man.

 

“Mr. Fitz!  I see you’ve finally decided to add your perspective to the discussion.  To what do we owe this momentous occasion?”  Dr. Solomon was clearly an equal-opportunity mocker.

“Sir, I was just explaining to… er--”

“Simmons.”  Why was the professor smiling?

“-- to Simmons here that people aren’t inherently evil.  Something has to happen.”

“And if _Fitz_ here had let me finish, I would have pointed out that there’s quite a debate on whether nature or nurture affects ‘evil’ behavior more.”  She took the high road and did _not_ resort to air quotes.  For now.  “Brain scans of serial killers show poor development in the prefrontal cortex and occipital lobes, and neuroscientists have discovered a ‘warrior gene’ that predisposes a person towards violence.” She ended triumphantly, “So you see, DNA can and does play a part.”

“That’s a meaty concept you’ve just bit into, Simmons.  It would make an excellent topic for your final paper.  And,” Dr. Solomon turned his attention back to the class at large, “it ties in nicely with the chapter we’re discussing today.  If you’ll all turn to page 394…”

  
She let her gaze wander back to the thorn in her left side.   _What in the world…?_  The guy was flatly ignoring her now, eyes trained on his laptop, fingers busy.  The only sign that he acknowledged her presence was the way his body retreated as far back as the desk would allow.  Simmons had a flash of self-consciousness, wondering if she stank too badly after her accidental bout of cardio this morning.   _Well even if I do, he reeks worse of spicy cheese._  She could practically taste the preservatives.

And had he even heard her rebuttal after the way he’d put words in her mouth and insulted her?  She thought she might’ve impressed Dr. Solomon -- which was nothing to sneeze at -- but she’d hoped to knock this _Fitz_ person down a peg as well.  Instead, here he was, pretending she didn’t exist, and for some reason, it made flames crawl up the side of her face.  She was Jemma Simmons, double doctorates before she could even vote.  She would _not_ be ignored.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn’t really think they were going to be besties without bickering first?  
> Hmm… something about Fitz really gets under Simmons’ skin.  
> I promise you lovely people that not every chapter will deal with philosophy -- FitzSimmons' first love (before each other) is science, and I intend to reflect that.  
> Gotta love a Harry Potter reference!  
> Reviews are sweeter than gas-station-store cappuccino.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

As soon as he’d identified her as the crisp-coveting hag from Orientation, Fitz had resolved not to say another word to his bossy new seat-mate.  But that soon became impossible when she’d started spouting off her hogwash about nefarious infants. To be honest, he’d been a bit surprised to hear his objections escaping his mouth in that unintentional ramble… and even more shocked when she’d interrupted him.  Interrupted!  Him!  The sassy little minx!   _Makes sense she heard me, though._  Fitz recalled how she’d noticed him gently easing open a soda can during their last encounter.   _She must have some kind of bionic hearing._  They’d all need to watch out for this Simmons character.

Her stunt with the late arrival had already garnered him more attention from the rest of the students than he’d ever sought.  Fitz wasn’t one for the spotlight -- everyone thought he was, because he won so many awards, but he was actually very humble.  So when Dr. Solomon started in on him, he answered out of deference, because mum had made sure he always listened to his teachers.   _Not that they ever listened to me, even when I made it clear how much smarter I was._  But Fitz vowed, once this class was over, he would never again engage this girl in a debate.  Best for both of them if she just found a new seat.

She was carrying on about prefrontal this and DNA that -- _Biology, then; it figures_ \-- when he tuned her out and went back to toying with the schematics for his latest project.  He didn’t need to think about these weighty issues.  He was an engineer, a scientist; if everything went as planned, he’d be in a lab, building gadgets and leaving the big decisions to the powers that be.  He didn’t even intend to take the field assessment, for God’s sake.  Let others worry about whether or not their enemies were evil, whether or not to kill them.   _All I want is to play with my robots; is that so much to ask?_

He could see her out of the corner of his eye, staring him down like an angry rhinoceros.   _Just what is this girl’s problem?_  He wondered if she could be some sort of stalker.  He hadn’t seen her around, but Fitz wasn’t one of these 007 types -- it was entirely possible for someone to tail him without his knowledge.   _Oh, criminy, I hope she’s not been lurking in the showers with a camera!_  Fitz wasn’t paranoid, but it was logical that someone would follow him around, maybe trying to get dirt on him so he’d upgrade their flip phone for free.  But why would she approach him now?  Had she found something to blackmail him with?  Fitz quickly replayed the last few weeks in his head, and decided he’d been the perfect model of duty and taste.  Maybe she needed help with her homework?  

 _That’s got to be it._  They’d already established she wasn’t very responsible.  Well, she would just have to be disappointed, because Fitz had long ago chosen his strategy for Solomon’s exams -- parroting back some garbage philosophy about doing no harm.  Regurgitating his teachers’ words had worked well enough to pass in previous courses, and Fitz didn’t intend to waste ink or breath on preparation.

She was still staring. Could it be a bit of Dorito?  He licked his lips, but didn’t taste any telltale crumbs.   _What’s this mad wench looking at?_ He spared a glance in her direction, and she aggressively mimed pulling something out of her ear.   _Ugh!_   Fitz shuddered, repulsed. _Does she need a Q-tip?_  He let out an exaggerated sigh.  Might as well see what she wanted.  He’d get no peace otherwise, not with her looking at him like he’d nicked her parking space at the mall.

He leaned towards her and hissed, “What is it now?”

“You really ought to take your headphones out.”  Her criticism was hushed but dictatorial, exactly the way he remembered it from the slide-show.  “It’s totally disrespectful to Dr. Solomon and the rest of the class.”

He smirked, his voice equally soft, “Aren’t you the one that came in halfway through the lecture?  Why didn’t you just skip today, anyway?”

“I was put in this section about five minutes before heading over here.  And you’ll excuse me if I opted for half a lecture rather than none at all.”  She gestured at his desk, and Fitz had to stop himself from ducking.  “Why don’t _you_ stay home if you don’t care about the subject?”

Fitz shrugged.  “Participation grade.”

She huffed but didn’t push it.  For a blessed few minutes, everything was silent.  Fitz could hear Dr. Solomon musing away, but he reckoned that wasn’t so bad, if the alternative was getting harangued by Simmons.  Until she whispered at him again.  “What are you listening to that’s so important, anyway?”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Fitz explained in soothing tones, tapping at his earbuds, “but there’s no sound coming through.  I leave them in so people don’t try to talk to me.”  He gave her a pointed look and returned to his schematics, tugging a few pages out of a binder and pretending to read.  It didn’t work.   _She’s like a terrier with a sock, this one._

“And one more thing, while I’ve got you -- there’s a placard _right there_ about not eati-- ooh, what is that?”  She shoved her big head into his personal space, leering at his notes.

“Never you mind what that is!” he retorted, frantically trying to cover up his work.   _She’s stealin’ my ideas!  No wonder she’s been following me._

She rolled her eyes, but there was no heat behind it.  “Calm down, you muppet.  I think I can help.”

Fitz halted in the process of draping his cardigan over his sketches.  “What’re you talkin’ about?”

“Well, you’re building a drone, aren’t you?”

“You caught that from a glimpse at my papers?”  Well, that wasn’t so impressive.  Anyone could look at a picture.  That’s why children’s books were filled with them.

“It wasn’t too hard to figure out,” she echoed.  “You’re Engineering, yeah?”

Fitz sent a prayer up to his mum’s favorite saints.  Lord help him if this girl turned out to be a plant from Stark Industries.  “OK, so what -- you think you can build a better one?”

She looked at him with -- _Is that amusement?  The nerve._  “I think we could help each other.  I’ve been working on a triple-strength myomer; it’s an artificial fiber that behaves like a muscle--”

Fitz narrowed his eyes.  “I know what myomers are, thanks.”

“-- and it says here…”  she yanked the cardigan away and turned the page in his hands right side up, jabbing at an annotation, “ _Need material for deformable wing._ ”  She paused, tilting her head like a puppy who expected a treat.  “Well?  Don’t you think that could work?”

  
Fitz was stunned, the shock sour on his tongue.  There was _no bleeding way_ that this sweaty, tardy, insolent girl had just solved one of his biggest design issues.  But the more he looked for a flaw in her plan, the more his own mind lit up with ideas.  He turned to her like he was seeing the Eiffel Tower at night.  “Yeah… that would actually--”

Then the bell rang.

“Oh, no, I’ve got to run!  My schedule is all over the map now.”  She was sticking things into her bag, packing desperately like a hurricane refugee.

“Wait just a-- wait!”  They wouldn’t see each other again for three days if she left, and this myomer scheme he’d helped her come up with was too good not to test straightaway.  “When can we work on this?  Are you in the lab later?”

“Oh!  Yes, I suppose so, but I can only spend an hour on it today.”

“That’s fine; that’s more than enough time.”  It wasn’t like Fitz really wanted to hang out with her anyway.   _Just need to sort out the wings and that’ll be that._

“Okay.  I’ll be in Webb Hall tonight after dinner.  Lab 8.  See you then!”

She was off in a flash of blinding teeth and flyaway hair.  Fitz took his time gathering his belongings, contemplating everything that had just happened.  He couldn’t help but feel excited at the prospect of advancing his project.  Not that it had anything to do with the girl; she was pretty annoying, after all.  But he’d work with her.  For science.

Shoving the last folder into his backpack, Fitz caught sight of his empty desk.  Something was niggling at the back of his brain.  Perplexed, he looked around the aisle, wondering if he’d forgotten his phone or keys, until his eyebrows flung up in realization.

_Where the Hell are my crisps?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand that’s Fitz.  The trouble with switching voices is that things could get repetitive, so I hope I’m avoiding that so far.  
> Thanks to my amazing husband for giving me the idea about their collaborative project.  (And of course for being the love of my life and a million other things that don’t relate to the story.)  
> Myomers come from the game BattleTech. Artificial muscles are sort of real, though.  
> Thanks to everyone who’s been reading, commenting, and following.  You guys…  *punches arm good-naturedly*  Oh gosh I’m so sorry; is your arm OK?  
> Mmmm-mmm. Snarky Fitz makes me unreasonably happy.  I can only hope you feel the same!
> 
> Reviews are better than Chris Hemsworth in a towel.  (Lies!  Foul lies!)  But they’re pretty close.  (Not even a little bit close.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Simmons stared at the boy, trying to puzzle him out.  She wasn’t accustomed to being treated so rudely, and certainly not by someone who looked a couple of years her junior.  Her parents had always pushed her to explore her opinions -- they’d drilled it into her to be inquisitive, but not a nuisance; to be assertive, but remain gracious.  Her teachers had encouraged her, and her playmates, when she’d had them, had been friendly enough.

Which wasn’t to say her life was all roses.  As a small girl who routinely made those around her feel inadequate, Simmons had often been left alone, people choosing to dismiss her out of hand in favor of the familiar.  As she’d grown up, and the realities of the world revealed themselves, she’d crossed paths with sexism countless times, and encountered all manner of false assumptions for the sake of being pretty.  But at least those reactions normally fell within the boundaries of politeness, the insults crafted as compliments, condescension coming in through the back door.  Being shut down so unapologetically by this gruff, ill-mannered teenager was quite unusual, and Simmons didn’t know what to make of him.

He might be legitimately confused about what constituted acceptable social norms in this environment.   _Seems like a bit of a hermit, to be sure._  He also might not be the best at interpreting situations and responding to them -- given his apparent age, his brain was most likely still developing its frontal cortex, responsible for decision-making and behavior control.  Simmons was constantly aware of that fact about her own 18-year-old brain, since it made decorum a struggle at times.  She made up her mind.   _The poor lad… he just doesn’t know any better._  Well, Simmons could certainly help him out.

She’d start by clueing him in to his demeanor.  If this Fitz guy wanted to excel in life, he’d need to put forth a tad more effort to get people to take him seriously.

“You really ought to take your headphones out.”  She said it as softly and gently as she could.  That was the first step -- Fitz needed to realize how disrespectful it looked to the rest of the world when he did things like that.

She shouldn’t have been surprised when he sniped back, “Aren’t _you_ the one that came in halfway through the lecture?” but a wave of embarrassment crashed over her at the thought that he was right.  As much as she would’ve preferred the circumstances to be different, the fact was that she’d been late, her professor had singled her out, and this -- this _kid_ \-- next to her was making her feel even worse about it.

She lashed out, letting him draw her into a tiff, before forcing herself back to silence.   _Control yourself, Jemma.  Might as well get mad at a toddler for not knowing how to tie his shoes._  Rationally, she knew she could trace all this childish anger to her neophyte brain, kicking up a tantrum.

She took a few moments to breathe, finding it easy to forgive him.  And when he told her that his earbuds were disconnected -- “I leave them in so people don’t try to talk to me” -- she felt her heart crack ever so slightly, allowing a trickle of sympathy to leak out.  She looked him over, picking up for the first time on the hint of unwashed laundry about his clothes, the way he crouched into his chair, how thin he was under his jumper, the shadows behind his eyes.   _How did I miss all that?_

He was rummaging in his binders, so anxious at the prospect of a conversation with another human being that he knocked his crisps off the desk without even noticing.   Compassion rooting in her chest, Simmons wondered what it must have taken to make him so afraid.  And when he shut her out again, feigning interest in his notes despite holding one page upside down -- _Ooh, a drone, how intriguing!_ \-- she decided she simply _couldn’t_ let him be.

 

This boy needed a friend.  And Simmons needed a project.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'll do the lab scene next, but I wanted to build the bridge between them fighting and Simmons offering to help him out, and why she'd do that after they were such jerks to each other. Plus I thought it would be interesting if Fitz was paranoid and took everything the wrong way, with Simmons feeling something completely different. And in fact neither of them might be seeing things accurately! (Ain't the human mind just a kick in the pants?)  
> And never fear - this is not the end of Sassy Jemma! After all, she can always blame her noob prefrontal cortex.  
> Thanks to [amandajbruce](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/1852741/amandajbruce) on FF for helping me sort through some of Simmons' mindset here. You're a peach! But not a plum, which is apparently slang for idiot. (Please, British people, correct me if I'm wrong!)  
> All that stuff about the teenage brain came from the American Psychological Association website and Wikipedia.  
> Not sure if I'll switch back to Fitz or keep Jemma for the next chapter. I guess we'll all find out soon!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

Simmons wondered if she would see Fitz at the cafeteria that night, but though she kept her eyes peeled, he never showed.  She guessed he probably liked to eat alone, complaining to nobody the whole time in his Scottish burr.   _Don’t jump to conclusions, Jemma._  He may simply not have purchased a meal plan.

He _was_ a fussbudget, though.  Based on his attitude earlier, she wasn’t looking forward to having him in her lab, telling her off and generally being disagreeable.  Irritation flashed in her head, an instant of regret in hindsight, before she quelled it with a thought -- _You got yourself into this.  If you’re going to feed the strays, don’t be angry when they start crying for scraps._  And the Simmons family had volunteered with the animal rescue community for years, so she was no stranger to feral cats.

No, grumpy or not shouldn’t matter.  You didn’t do nice things because it made you feel good -- that was selfish.  Simmons had meant it when she told Dr. Solomon she trusted herself to make the right choice.  Protecting the weak, helping those who had no one, serving the greater good -- those ideals didn’t exist solely in the S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook.   They were etched into Simmons’ identity.

 

* * *

 

Fitz tugged his cap down over his unwieldy curls and hoisted his tech crate, balancing it with one arm.  His teeth tasted funny.   _Don’t be nervous._  Where had that come from?  Fitz wasn’t nervous.  This wasn’t a date or anything.  If it was a date he would’ve been on time.  His mum had always told him, never keep your dates waiting.  Dates, plural.   _That was optimistic of her._  But this was most certainly not a date, even if it was the first time he’d willingly spent time with anyone since he’d started at the Academy, and a girl, at that.

Fitz jumped slightly when his phone buzzed out a reminder to “call mum” for their standard Friday night chat.  _Argh, she’s expectin’ me._  Fitz was a dutiful son; he would never make her worry.  He dialed the one number in his call log.

“Hey, mum!  I’m sorry to cut this short but I’m at the lab right now -- or about to be.  Can I ring you after I’m done?  Yep.  No, mum, it’s fine, you’re not interruptin’ anything.  Okay, I love you too.”

He was definitely late now.  Fitz might’ve felt guilty, only it was hard to know what time they’d agreed on, since Simmons hadn’t exactly said.  But here he was, Webb Hall, Lab 8, thirty minutes after the dining hall had closed. He breathed out hard and opened the door.

 

Simmons was bent over a Petri dish, pipette in hand.  “Oh, good, you’re here!  I thought you might’ve forgotten,” she said, by way of greeting.

 _Not even a ‘hello’ then, that’s how this is?_ And right out of the gate, pointing out how long he’d taken in getting there.  Which was rich, coming from her.

 _Fine._  Fitz could give back as good as he got.  “You were the one bein’ intentionally vague, with your” -- _finger quotes_ \-- “‘after dinner’. As a scientist, you should limit your variables better.  You’re just lucky that I knew what you meant.”

She snorted teasingly, rolling her eyes.  “Brilliant deduction, Doctor Watson.”  

She thought _she_ was Sherlock?   _Deluded._   “What I meant was, you should be more specific next time.”

“Next time…”  She looked up, brows arching with a tiny smile.  “Is this going to become a regular thing?”

“That’s not what I-- oh, Hell-- let’s just get to work.”  Now she thought he was keen to spend more time with her.  Nothing could be further from the truth… especially not in this filthy bio-lab.  It smelled like a cross between dog food and formaldehyde, with a side order of farty eggs.  Fitz pulled out his notes, ready for this all to be over.

“So I brought my voltage parameters, and the plans for the wing shapes I’ll need.  I’ve also got my early model--”

“--which we should be able to run some of the fibers through, assuming you’ve created an inlet--”

“--and I’ll try them out in the prototype eventually, but for now--”

“--for now, you can leave all that in the case.”

Fitz quirked an eyebrow.  “What’s the holdup?  Let’s get started.”

Simmons affected a Mr. Miyagi stance.  “Patience, young grasshopper.”

This girl clearly watched too many movies.   _Tsk tsk._   _Priorities._  He sincerely hoped she wasn’t going to make him “paint the fence” and “wax on, wax off” before helping him out.   _She_ was the one who’d put the hour limit on their work tonight, after all.

She chuckled.   _Probably at that terrible impersonation._  “I only meant I don’t think you’ll want to unpack everything twice; the equipment to test out the myomers is in the adjoining lab.”  She indicated a door at the back of the room.  “Just let me clean this up first.”

 

“I’ll wait,” Fitz nodded, popping open a bag of Funyuns, determined to finish them before she could steal any this time.  He’d missed dinner, after Jonesy and Herrick caught him on the way to the dining hall.

Simmons flapped her hands like a chicken.  “You can’t eat that in here!”

“You’re not gonna make me bin it, are you?  C’mon, be a pal.”  Fitz turned on the considerable charm.  He knew they weren’t pals --  more like the opposite -- but Simmons didn’t seem to.  He could use that to his advantage.

She gave him a measuring look -- he had the startling image of a pumpkin being weighed at the county fair -- and acquiesced.  “I suppose it’s fine, this once.”

 _Huh.  Maybe that stick up her bum is shorter than I thought._  Fitz watched her tidy her workspace in one fluid process, replacing lids on containers, locking up hazardous chemicals, washing out glassware and setting it in the drying rack.  In this environment, she hardly resembled the frazzled girl he’d met that morning.  In the lab, Simmons was a dancer.

“Shall we?” she asked, turning off the fume hood.

 

Together, they opened the door to the new lab, and the smell hit him in the throat like a tennis racket.

 

* * *

 

Simmons jolted as she heard the distinctive crinkle of the foil bag.   _Good grief._  Had he robbed a vending machine?  She had half a mind to lecture him on proper nutrition: the chemicals in those things alone… didn’t he know that FDA standards were incredibly lax?  These snacks weren’t like junk food in the UK.  Still, their friendship was in its fledgling stage -- probably not the best time to bring up cancer.  And he did look a bit skinny.

As she cleaned, she stole quick peeps at her strange new colleague.  He was wearing an odd baseball cap, emblazoned with a random bank logo -- probably a freebie.  She hoped he hadn’t been gullible enough to sign up for a credit card just to get a hat and a large pizza.  Given his penchant for xenophobia, though, she wouldn’t be surprised if Fitz had nabbed the loot and walked off, not understanding that they weren’t simply there for the taking.

The rest of his clothes were no better.  XXL shirt that stuck awkwardly out from under his baggy pullover, pair of jeans in the darkest denim available -- _that’s practical, if you don’t intend to wash them_ \-- and the rattiest pair of red Converse this side of a skateboarding competition.   _This won’t do at all._   

She’d have to find ways to help him appear more grown-up.  A beard might work, if he were willing.  She herself had been forced to learn how to pass as an adult, years before she might’ve wanted to.  As the only person in graduate school too young to drive, it had quickly become apparent that dressing smartly and wearing makeup were mandatory if she wanted her ideas to be given fair weight.  From the little she knew of him, and the glances she’d sneaked at his work, Simmons got the impression that the world needed to hear what Fitz had to say.

 

“Shall we?”

The stepped into the adjacent room, and Fitz immediately went into a choking fit.

“Fitz!  What’s wrong?”

“The smell--” he coughed out, “It’s in my mouth!  Ach, it tastes like a zoo!”

 _Really, it’s not that bad._  She almost snickered when she saw his eyes actually watering.   _Lightweight._ Simmons grabbed the hat off his head and fanned his face with the brim.  That’s when she saw it, in bold black marker across his forehead: a crude rendition of the male anatomy.  “Oh, Fitz…”

Red as a beet, Fitz snatched the cap out of her hand and pushed it back into place.  “Never mind that.”

“No, not ‘never mind.’  Who did this?”

Fitz wouldn’t look at her, his head turned to the floor.  “It was just a harmless prank.  Couple of mates of mine.  You know how it is, they call me a dickhead, I call them rat bastards, it’s all fun.”

She sighed.   _You can’t expect him to let you fix his life on the first day._  But it seemed she had her work cut out for her.  At that particular moment, however, there _was_ something she could do.  “I’ve a solvent that’ll take that right off.  Come with me.”

 

Simmons took Fitz by the hand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Simmons to the rescue!  
> Poor Fitz.  "Freshman pranks" are never fun.  
> The source of the horrible stench (another dead cat, perhaps?) will be revealed next!  Or, maybe Fitz is just being a diva since he doesn't like biology smells.  
> I like my reviews like I like my coffee -- instant, and at all hours of the day.  
> Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

This Simmons chick was handsy.  Fitz didn’t care for it in the least.

First she’d stolen the hat off his head -- _shades of primary school_ \-- and now she was dragging him along towards a set of cabinets built into the side wall.  To be fair, his eyes were still a bit teary from gagging, so it was good she was there to direct him.  ‘ _She’s harmless’_ , he told himself, blocking out the clammy feel of her palm in his.  The contact was repugnant, but not menacing, and Leo Fitz was _not_ afraid of cooties.  He’d be fine.

He kept himself from twitching when she moistened a cotton ball with some unknown solution and swiped it across his brow.   _How much do you trust this girl?  She could be dousing you with acid._  Well, _that_ was a sinister thought.  “I can’t get ink poisoning from this, can I?”

She laughed at him -- grating, like a kookaburra.  “Only if you drank the ink, and loads of it.  Don’t worry… besides, the cleanser works perfectly.  It’s my own formula,” she finished with a narcissistic flourish.

 _La-dee-dah._  He resisted closing his eyes as she moved her fingers over his forehead, grazing his hair and transporting him back to bygone night-night rituals.  He peeked at Simmons as she worked, her face perturbingly close, eyes the color of watered-down coffee and just as perky.

“All set!”   _Thank goodness.  Now we can finally get to work._

“Brilliant.  Where should I set up my stuff?”  Fitz looked around the room.  Every thought left his head when he finally spotted the source of that pungent animal stench.  “Oy!  What’s this?”  He wandered over to investigate.

“Oh, that’s Kimberly and Tabitha’s monkey trial.  They’re grad students.  The girls, not the monkeys.”   _Hilarious._

“Hi there, sweetheart…”  One monkey, smaller and cuter than the rest, was sucking her thumb and looking up at Fitz with enormous eyes.  There were four of them in a massive C-shaped wire cage, with a couple of separate enclosures sitting empty nearby.  The runty one was closest to Fitz, two others a short way off slurping on fresh fruit.  The fourth monkey wasn’t nearly so adorable, with a scar across his left cheek, staked out in his own corner across the cage.  Dish towel wrapped around him like a cape, he was smashing rocks onto dried peach pits and picking out the nuts inside.

“What species is this?  I’ve never seen these before.”  Fitz wasn’t obsessed or anything, but he knew his share of monkey facts.  
“Ah!”  Simmons sparked like a lightning bug.  “They’re Zakadel monkeys, native to Wakanda.  They’re named after a reality-TV contestant who discovered them a few years ago while filming an adventure dating show in the jungle.”  Her giggle floated through the air.  “He was trying to set up a romantic evening, and kept wondering where his picnic had gone!  Eventually he convinced the camera crew to help him catch the little devils in the act.”

 _This one’s always overflowing with information, like a sort of braggy waterfall._  He wondered if it physically hurt her not to know something.

“As it turns out, Zakadels make wonderful research candidates because they share nearly as much genetic similarity with humans as chimpanzees, but they’re a fraction of the size.”

“So what are they being used for here at S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Oh, their brains are wired up with all sorts of sensors.  Kibbles is a neuropsychologist.”

“Who?”

“Kimberly.  She and Tabitha are research partners, BFFs,” she rolled her eyes at the term, “and a pair of utter morons.  They like to be called Kibbles and Bits.”  Simmons’ face twisted in a disgruntled moue.  “It’s an appropriate moniker.”   _A-ha!  She doesn’t make friends with everyone, it seems._

“Wow, you really do not like these women.  What, one of them steal your boyfriend?  Ruin your blouse?  Borrow your lipstick without askin’?”  Fitz didn’t have sisters, but he’d watched enough of his mum’s “stories” that he could guess at what might make a pretty girl angry.

“More like they destroyed four months’ worth of samples because they were having an ‘impromptu dance party’ in the lab, fueled by vodka," she scoffed.  "Which they lied about!  Luckily I was able to get a copy of the surveillance video.”

“And they’re still here?  Why didn’t you have them kicked out?”  It was what Fitz would’ve done.  Simmons evidently lacked the cojones for revenge.   _Spineless._

A smile flitted across her face.  “We sorted it.  I may not like them personally, but they owe me a favor now, and honestly, isn’t that better than putting up with a new grad student I’ve never met?”

 _The crafty wench._ Simmons was surprising him more and more.  “Well, you won’t have to worry about any alcoholic romps on my end.  I’m not even allowed in the liquor store.”

“Oh?  How old are you?”  Her tone was quizzical.

“18.  Few months shy.”

“So you’re actually 17.”   _Rude_.  “Funny, I thought I was the youngest at S.H.I.E.L.D.  I’m 18.”

“Bully for you.”   _Actin’ all high and mighty, just ‘cause she can play the lotto._

Right then, Fitz felt a tug at his back pocket.  He spun around to see the fourth monkey, the loner, cheekily holding his phone.

“You saucy bugger!  Give that back!”  Fitz made to grab the old Nokia brick, but the monkey -- _Pacino, I think, for the scar_ \-- held it out of reach, pointing imperiously at his bag of Funyuns.  For Pete’s sake.   _Why’s everyone always after my crisps?_

“I gotcha.  Quid pro quo, is it?”  He held out one crunchy ring.

“Fitz, you can’t--”

Pacino plucked it out of Fitz’s fingers but kept the phone, turning it over with his adorable hands.  “Hey!  A deal’s a deal, you twocker!”

The blasted creature must’ve pressed a button, because Fitz’s phone suddenly began blaring a ring tone -- an energetic MIDI from some classic Nintendo game.  Pacino screeched, then ran to the other side of the cage where his brethren had congregated and placed the phone up near the front.  The sound attracted the other three, and they crowded around, passing it between them.

“Not again…”  Simmons sighed and shook her head.  “I’ll get it.”

She fetched a long rod with a scooped hook and used it to scrape the phone out through the cage bars.  Meanwhile, Fitz noticed that Pacino had taken advantage of the distraction to grab as much of the others’ food as he could carry, skipping back to his corner with an armload of nibbles.

 _Clever little rascal._  Fitz got the distinct impression that the entire series of unfortunate events might’ve been staged from the start.

He decided he quite liked this monkey.

 

* * *

 

Simmons dusted off the phone and carefully removed the package of fried onion snacks from the counter near the cage.  What seemed like a safe distance usually needed doubling, with these simian scoundrels.  Their antics made her laugh, though.  Zakadels were a lovable bunch.

“Here you are.”

“Cheers.”  Fitz pocketed his phone, in the front of his jeans this time.  “I take it this has happened before?”

“A few times.  It’s my fault -- I didn’t think to warn you before it all hit the fan.”

“That’s fine -- it was probably the highlight of my day, gettin’ mugged by the wee hooligan.”

They smiled awkwardly at each other until Fitz went to unlatch his tech crate.  “So should we…”

“Oh, no, Fitz!  Look at the time!  I’m not booked to be here past 9 o’clock.”

“What?  So all this was for nothin’?”

Simmons felt that description was a bit uncalled for.  Fitz was the one who’d spent all night hanging around the monkeys instead of getting to work.  “Well, if you hadn’t been late--”

“If _you_ hadn’t been vague--”

“You’re the one who wanted my help--”

“You’re the one who offered!  I never asked for--”

“Oh, honestly-- it doesn’t matter!  We need to clear out of here.”

“Fine!”

He hefted his case -- Simmons wondered how his slight frame could stand to carry that around -- and began storming out.  As it happened, however, it was very hard for Fitz to march when he was thrown off balance by the cumbersome weight of technology.  That, and the fact that there were two heavy doors between him and the hall, prompted Simmons to run to his aid, steadying the container from the other side.

“I want to help, Fitz, really.  I’ve been searching for a good application for my work, and this is perfect.  Besides, no one else will partner with me.”

“I can’t imagine why.”  The sarcasm was expected.   _Feral cats, Jemma_ _,_ she thought with a pang.  At least he had the decency to look ashamed.  “Sorry, that was--”

“Don’t worry about it.  Just,” she looked at him through her lashes, “can we try again tomorrow?”

Fitz scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck.   _Oh, he’s cute when he’s shy_.  “Yeah, I reckon we could.”

“Perfect!”  She was all business again.  “I’ll meet you outside the dining hall at 1 p.m.  We’ll eat lunch and then head to the lab.”

“What?  Lunch, but--”

“You do eat real food on occasion, don’t you?”  She was going to get a proper meal into him if it killed her.

“Er… yes…”

“Then it’s settled.  My number’s already in your phone.”  She’d programmed it in after her daring rescue.  “Oh, and Fitz?”

He looked discombobulated, like a fainting goat on its way down.  “What?”

She grinned, remembering his missed calls.  “Don’t forget to ring your mum.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a Fitzsimmons origin story, but it just might also be the origin story for Fitz’s extreme love of monkeys as well.  
> You probably can’t get ink poisoning from a Sharpie tattoo, says a basic Google search. That said -- don’t mess around with markers, kids.  
> The Zakadel monkey is made up. I named them after a reality TV contestant who bears a striking resemblance to a monkey, and to avoid being mean, I’ll leave it at that.  
> Their abilities are inspired by chimps, long-tailed macaques, and especially capuchin monkeys.  
> My monkey facts came from Wikipedia and a New York Times article titled “Monkey Business” about how freaking awesome capuchins are.  
> I think impromptu dance parties might be a Grey’s Anatomy thing.  
> Wakanda is an African nation in the Marvel Universe, near Tanzania.
> 
> Gimme an R! Gimme an E! Gimme a V! Gimme a… Ooof. Cheerleading’s exhausting. Just gimme a “rev.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

_Why’d she give me her number?_

Fitz paced outside Simmons’ dorm.  Did this girl have designs on him?  That sounded ominous.  She was his age, he’d learned, or close enough as made no difference.  She could maybe be pretty, too, if she weren’t so bossy.  Not that Fitz cared if his lab partner were pretty.  Nevertheless, he was observant by nature.  It was what made him so good at his work, kept him from making mistakes.  So what if he noticed a couple of details about Simmons?  It didn’t mean he liked her.

And the way she’d been sniffing around his phone?   _Nosy tart._  But like it or not, he did need her to walk to lunch with him.  Safety in numbers and so on.  Fitz pulled out his mobile and sent the text.

 

* * *

 

From: Fitz (12:52 PM) downstairs  
From: Fitz (12:53 PM) nm some1 let me in. room #?  
From: Simmons (12:53 PM) 404

 

Simmons felt the knock before she heard it.  She opened the door to see Fitz running his palms down his thighs.   _Same pair of jeans._  She smiled brightly and pulled him into the room.

She wasn’t exactly sure _why_ she’d said that the night before, about no one being willing to partner her.  It had just kind of... slipped out.  Of course she knew there were always people who’d be pleased as punch to let her do all the work for half the credit.  The thing was, she wanted a true collaboration, one that developed not just her skills, but her mind and hopefully her character as well.   _At least Fitz isn’t dull._  Simmons couldn’t tolerate boredom.

“I’m just gathering my spreadsheets, then we can head out.”

“Cool.”  Fitz ambled through the dorm room, examining the pictures on the bulletin board -- Simmons as a toddler accepting a pretend diploma, the Simmons family at exotic destinations around the world, a teenaged Simmons in a white coat holding up a trophy.  He spotted the tiny fridge and microwave.  “Hey, Cup o' Noodles!  Y’ know, we _could_ just eat here and save ourselves the walk.”

 _Aww._  Whatever he was afraid of in the dining hall, it had to be pretty bad to prefer instant ramen to the bevy of choices available from Food Services.  Even with their cafeteria food, S.H.I.E.L.D. used its considerable clout to ensure quality.

She softened her voice.  “Fitz… is there some reason you don’t want to eat lunch with the rest of the student body?”

“What?  ‘Course not.  Why would-- why d’ you think that?”  His face was pinched up like a farfalle noodle.  She gestured obliquely at his forehead.

Fitz sighed.  Something in him seemed to snap free, and he slumped onto her bed.  “Not everyone is…” he spaced out his words and shrugged, unsure.

“It’s been hard for me, too.”  Simmons consciously didn’t sit next to him -- he needed to feel safe right now -- but joined him at eye level, choosing the desk chair for herself.  “I haven’t made any real friends here… I thought I’d have so much to talk about with these brilliant people, but it’s like all they see is an odd little girl, memorizing facts.”   _Why am I the one opening up?_  It was meant to be the other way around, but the moment was too significant to ignore.  “I don’t know if it’s my accent, or my age… they treat me like a talking cartoon animal.”  She gave a small laugh.

“At least they like having you around.”

“You just need to talk to people more.  They’ll warm up.”   _Like I have._  But everything started with self-confidence.  “And Fitz, if someone’s giving you a hard time, stand up for yourself.”

He chuckled bitterly.  “Women are always givin’ advice like that, when it’s us blokes who have to take the punch.”

“I’m not being funny.”  She squared her shoulders to him.  “What would you say, if the chavs who drew on your face were here right now?  What would you want to tell them?”

“Ach, Simmons, can we leave this alone?”  He sounded pained.

“No.”  He needed to confront his demons, and this was as good a time as any.  “Now, pretend I’m the big oaf.”

“There’s two of ‘em.”

“Okay, well you have to be you, so I’ll just be whichever one is more atrocious.”

Fitz inhaled a long-suffering breath.  “Fiiine.  Go ahead.”

 _What?  This is about you._  She looked at him with the question on her tongue.

“Provoke me.  Say something mean.”

“Oh!”  This could be fun.  Simmons hunched her shoulders and puffed out her cheeks.  She expanded her torso as best she could, and drawled in an approximation of a Texas twang, “Look what the cat dragged in!  Thought I tol’ you not to show your face ‘round these here parts!”

Fitz stared a minute before cracking up.  He put a hand on his chest.  “Help!  I’m shakin’ in my cowboy boots!”

“You hush, I’ve never had to bully someone before,” she rebuked, but she was giggling too.  “Okay, okay.  How’s this?”  She modified her earlier stance to evoke an 80’s teen-movie villain, deepening her pitch and putting an absurd emphasis on certain words.  “What’re you doin’ around the cool kids, _Einstein_?  Go back to the _library_ where you belong.”

Fitz’s eyes twinkled, but he kept a straight face.  “Well, _someone_ has to raise the IQ around here to triple digits.”

“Ooh!  Good one.”  Simmons raised her palm for a high five.  She’d never been so gratified to receive what was basically a slap.

“Let’s go again.”

“Hmm, let me think.”  It was difficult, coming up with phrases to play the part without actually insulting him.  “Yo, Four-Eyes!”  Fitz shouldn’t take offense to that, since he didn’t wear glasses. “Where’s your _microscope_?  Don’t you need it to… er… find your tiny pecker?”   _Please don’t be mad, please don’t be mad._

He wasn’t mad.  “Oh, I think I left it on your mum’s nightstand!  After I had sex with her, is what I’m sayin’!”

Simmons raised her eyebrows.  They might not be the most polished retorts, but when Fitz let loose, he was quick on his feet.   _This guy can keep up._

“One more?”

She nodded, but her brain rebelled, treading on juvenile ground.

“C’mon, Simmons… what’sa matter?”  Fitz laid it on thick, pushing her buttons.  “Don’t think I can take it?  Or has your gigantic brain run out of ideas?”  She huffed.   _You asked for it._  She put on her baddie voice.

“Hey, you haggis!  The Loch Ness Monster called.  She asked what time you’re picking her up for the giant ugly mutant convention!”

Fitz’s mouth dropped open in a caricature of indignation.  “Och, _that_ one’s a bit personal, don’t you think?!”

 _Is he serious?  And just when we were getting along…_  Simmons froze in horror at the possibility she might’ve wrecked everything.  “No!  I’m so sorry!  I really didn’t mean anyth--”

“Relax, Simmons, I’m takin’ the piss.”

She exhaled.  She was actually starting to like Fitz, and it wouldn’t do to mock his homeland before they’d even had a chance to share a lab.  Not that she intended to do so _after_ sharing a lab.  “Oh,” she tittered nervously.

“And I’ll have you know, haggis is delicious.”  She pressed her lips together, abstaining from comment.  Fitz was grinning.  “You really hurt my feelings, Simmons.  I’d give you a nasty look, but… you’ve already got one!”   _Oh, he’s proud, is he?_  Making her feel guilty and zinging her anyway.  The very brass.

She rolled her eyes.  “How original.  I don’t think I’ve heard _that_ since second grade.”

They were both laughing now.

“Feel better?”  She extended a sneakered foot, tentatively, and nudged his leg.

“Yeah.  I do.”  He scratched an ear, sheepish.  “Sorry if I’m a pill sometimes.”

She tilted her head with a smirk.  “I’ve had medical training, Fitz.  I don’t mind working with pills.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like FitzSimmons are always getting delayed… but at least they’ve practiced Bazinga 101 in case they run into any cotton-headed ninnymuggins.  
> Sorry if this went a little OOC.  I figure, they’re both young, they can make a few crass or immature jokes in the privacy of Simmons’ dorm.  And hey, they’re bonding, right?
> 
> Thanks for all the love so far!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
> 
> Also, some of you may notice that Harris’s name has become Herrick.  While I still believe that a bully can have no better name than a homophone of _harass_ , I decided it was just a bit on the nose.  Sorry for any confusion.  Enjoy!

Simmons swiped him into the dining hall on her account, and Fitz let her, because he supposed she owed him one.   _I only just escorted her here like a ninja bodyguard._  

When he’d first arrived at Simmons’ door, Fitz had been dreading walking her to lunch.  He was only doing it because sometimes girls were weird about things like that.   _It’s broad daylight, for Christ’s sake.  What’s she afraid of?_  But if Simmons didn’t want to trek across campus alone, Fitz guessed he could use the exercise.  After all, his mum had raised a gentleman.

And, as it turned out, visiting her bedroom had been kind of fun.   _Wait.  That sounded wrong._  It wasn’t like they’d “had fun” in her dorm.  Okay, technically they had.  But not like… that.  They’d merely trash talked back and forth, not that any of it had actually felt like an put-down.   _Sure, because Simmons is the world’s least intimidating thug_.  She wasn’t too terrible at cracking wise, though.

She’d told him some personal stuff, too… how she didn’t have any friends.   _Och, her sad little face._  She seemed like the sort of person who needed friends.  Fitz got along fine on his own, always had, but Simmons?  Jabbering away ad infinitum, so dependent on the approval of others -- Fitz was glad he’d never cared what anyone thought.  He didn’t pay much heed to what Simmons thought, either… _but she does have that cool lab with all the monkeys_ .  He definitely wanted to see Pacino again; working with Simmons was a handy excuse.  And she was so specky and friendless -- _the least I can do is eat a meal with the naggy boffin_ .  Just as long as she didn’t get any wild ideas about them being more than partners.  His mum’s best efforts aside, Fitz wasn’t _that_ charitable.

The bustle and noise of the dining hall roused Fitz from his thoughts as the aroma of fresh-baked lasagne torpedoed straight to his stomach.  He loaded up his tray with pasta, chicken flautas, a slice of pepperoni pizza, chili, egg rolls, and a baked potato with all the fixin’s.  Instead of a prayer, he said a silent _thank you_ to whoever had decided the cafeteria should be a buffet; apparently the convenience of one price at the door was worth the cost of a few return trips.  People made fun of America’s all-you-can-eat mentality, but Fitz wasn’t complaining.

Grabbing a narrow side booth, he slid in as Simmons took the spot across from him, a more conservative plate in front of her.  She gaped at his food mountain.

“Gracious, Fitz!  Someone’s on the seafood diet.”                        

“See food, eat food?  That’s me.”  He plucked a pepperoni circle and popped it in his mouth to demonstrate.

She looked amused.  “Well, perhaps now you won’t treat the lab like it’s your kitchen table.”

“Let’s not make any rash decisions.”  Fitz was only filling up the shelf of his stomach that held lunch.  The snack and dessert shelves were still markedly empty.

At the far edge of his vision, Fitz saw what looked like the roid rage version of Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum shambling towards him.  “Oh, what luck,” he groaned.  “Here comes trouble.”

“What?”

“Couple of punks at 10 o’clock.”

“Are they the ones who…”  Simmons was turning her head like an owl.   _Bloody genius and she can't manage a little subtlety?_

“Stop that!  They’ll see you.”

Too late.  Jonesy and Herrick spotted him at the same time.

“Leeee-opold!”  The booming call rang out.  This didn't bode well.   _Dammit, Simmons._  Why’d she make him come here anyway?  He’d had a perfectly good plan with the Cup o' Noodles.  ‘ _But they’re not even mine, and the sodium content alone blah blah blah.’_  Girls were so demanding.

The Numbskull Twins were still shuffling nearer, smelling of oxen.  Sherman “Better Not Call Me Sherm” Herrick, and his compadre in crime Jake Jones, had made it their mission to target Fitz simply for existing.  It might’ve been upsetting, if Fitz was afraid of the great louts.  Which he wasn’t.  Much.

“Hey, roomie!”  Herrick clapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Sherm,” he mumbled, gaze down.

“Haven’t seen you here lately, Leopold," Jonesy sneered.  "Did you miss us?”

 _Only with my weapon prototypes._  He was _not_ going to say that.  His big mouth had already gotten him in enough trouble with these two.  He shrugged one shoulder halfheartedly.

"And you've got a friend!  Noice," Jonesy perved.  "I didn't realize girls at Sci-Tech were this cute..." he leered, raking her up and down with his beady mutton eyes.

 _Hey, now._  Fitz could take these lunkheads' abuse, but it was another thing entirely to harass Simmons.  He'd seen how badly she took even Fitz's well-intentioned constructive critiques.  

Jonesy kept on, "...maybe I'll head over there sometime and show'em a real man."

"We'd love that,"  Simmons parried sassily, and craned her neck.  "Is he standing behind you?"

Fitz was torn between grudging admiration -- _Tough bird!_ \-- and the warning bell going off in his head -- _She's gonna get me killed._  He tried to remember how long it’d been since his last Confession.  If they were going to die, he wanted to hedge his bets.  This all seemed incredibly unfair, especially since Simmons had started it by bobbling her noggin around like a dashboard toy.  He doubted anything would happen to _her_.  Ops cadets were such chauvinists.   _So there’s that, at least._    

“Oh, snap!”  Herrick had both hands over his mouth, eyes like lampshades.  “She got you good!”  His wide, crocodilian smile did nothing to help his face.

Fitz was frozen like he’d seen Medusa.  These brutes had ten stone on him, easy, and his courage fled like a rat from a sinking ship.  His attention darted precariously between Simmons and the two goons.   She was spitting lava, blazing as she stared up at the lummox.  Impossibly, she seemed to loom over _him_ from her seat.  Jonesy regarded Simmons in her full Lilliputian rage, King Kong about to close a colossal paw over Fay Wray.  Slowly, against all reason, his mouth broke open into a guffaw.

“This one’s spunky!  I like her.”  Jonesy dropped sausage fingers onto Fitz’s head -- _don’t shrink_ \-- messing up his curls and walking off to a corner table.   _Joke’s on him._ Fitz’s curls were always messy.

Herrick followed suit after a minute, accosting Simmons with a lecherous “See you around…” and joining the hulking flesh golem at the other table.

Fitz released all the air in his lungs.

“I take it those were our Sharpie artists?  They didn’t seem so bad.”

 _Not so bad?_   _Hmmph._ “You try gettin’ a tallywhacker on your face.”   _Gulp._ “Erm-- not that you-- a _picture_ , of course--”

She ignored him.   _Thank effing God._

“Anyway, it went fairly well, I think?”

Fitz didn’t answer right away.  He was still shaky from the encounter, and flustered from his recent phrasing gaffe.  But remembering her performance, St. George slaying the dragon, he drew heat from her fire.  “Yeah, that was right marv, what you said.  Don’t suppose you want to come with me to Vaughn’s class the next time he starts pickin’ on me…”

She laughed, a blackbird song.  “Oh, Dr. Vaughn’s harmless enough, if a bit tedious.  I can e-mail you a fool-proof list of questions that make him lose his train of thought.  It’s quite entertaining to see him flop about trying to get it back.”

Fitz’s grin threatened to pull off his cheeks.  Simmons had a few tricks up her sleeve.  He wondered what other curveballs she could throw.

Fitz wasn’t a gambler -- his mum would never have stood for that -- but when it came to choosing the best part of the lab, Simmons might just give the monkeys a run for their money.

 

… _Naaah._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Also, please look in your purse; I need a mint.  A com-mint.  
> Har!  Har har!  Folks, I’m here all week, try the veal.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Fitz said trouble was coming, but Simmons couldn’t see it.

After a moment, two boisterous older cadets came up to their table.   _They don’t_ _ **look**_ _like bullies…_ These men were more like a pair of hyperactive boxer pups, crashing against anything and everything they could in their zest for life.  And still, Simmons could see the darkness hooding Fitz’s eyes when the big one called his name -- _Leopold, that’s quite old-fashioned_ \-- and the way he shut off when the tall one touched his shoulder.  She didn’t like it.  Finding out that he was living with -- _What did he call him?  Sherm?_ \-- made the situation even more tragic, though his roommate at least seemed like the less obnoxious of the two.  The wide, stocky one confirmed this when he displayed a streak of bullfighter-grade machismo.

"Nice!  I didn't realize girls at Sci-Tech were this cute… maybe I'll head over there sometime and show'em a real man."

The rivalry between Ops and Sci-Tech was as old as the school, so she shouldn’t have been surprised by a dig at the men in her field.  And if the gorilla was trying to chat her up, well -- Simmons had dealt with her share of creeps before.  But as he made the comment, she caught the look on Fitz’s face, flashing back to his unfiltered logorrhea from Dr. Solomon’s lecture.   _Oh, no._  He was going to bark out some acerbic barb, throw poison into what was still a casual exchange.  If these two were really his aggressors, she couldn’t let him take the risk… though the fact that it would be in her defense made something warm and chocolatey melt over her.

Before he could let loose the floodgates of his scorn, Simmons took the chance away from him.  Inspired by images of jaunty Whedonesque heroines, filled with spit and vinegar from the comeback practice in her dorm, Simmons arched a brow and quietly put the barbarian in his place.  It wasn’t anything special, nothing a friend wouldn’t do to keep another friend out of trouble.   _Friends._  Yes, she supposed they were.

To the lugnut’s credit, he took the jab in stride, laughing good-naturedly.  While he was ruffling Fitz’s hair, for all the world like a teasing older cousin, his sidekick Sherm even went so far as to give them both an apologetic wave.   _They’re evil, Jemma.  Think of Fitz._  Still, if these guys were truly malicious, they were _very_ good at hiding it.

“Nice to meet you; hope to see you around.”  The roommate, especially, didn’t seem that bad, and Simmons said as much.  This somehow set Fitz off on an awkward ramble about penis drawings which she chose not to indulge.

Simmons liked to give people the benefit of the doubt.  She’d never met anyone who genuinely deserved her hatred before.   _Hate’s a bit strong._  Just the concept made her eyes narrow in skepticism.  And as much as it personally distressed her sometimes, she accepted that freshman pranks were part of the campus culture.  But if these were the ruffians who’d marked up Fitz’s face, she didn’t think she’d be taking their side anytime soon.  Whether they meant to or not, they’d hurt him, and that made fierce, growly parts of her flip in her stomach like the ignition on a car.

She and Fitz chatted amiably through the rest of lunch, discovering that they shared a few more classes besides Solomon’s, though they attended on different days.  Fitz had the sort of laser focus that she envied; he knew himself well enough to devote the whole of his intelligence and ability to the subjects he preferred, all but discarding the rest.  Of course, she thought with a hint of jealousy, he was the sort of person who could get away with not studying.

Simmons felt incredible pressure to learn as much about _everything_ as she could; it was why she’d left her Biology track for Biochem, and piled on medicine to boot.   _Not that I mind!_  She’d been so blessed in her life, just to be free to pursue that lust for knowledge, but sometimes, it left her mind feeling paper-thin.  From books and movies to science and history -- _It’s all so wonderful, and there’s no way to keep it all in my head._  Watching Fitz put a five-pound food baby into his belly, listening to him chatter on about his mum, Simmons wondered if perhaps there was more in life to love than homework.

They’d barely stood up and put their soiled trays on the conveyor belt to the dishwasher, when the boorish duo from earlier walked by.  Fitz stiffened, and Simmons moved to block him from view.   _Damn._  She wasn’t quite fast enough.

As the meat-heads passed them, the burly, swaggy one leaned over and said, “Hey Leopold!  Don’t forget you still owe us for that TV.”  And with a chin tilt, he and his friend were gone.

“A television set?  What was that about?”

Fitz ducked slightly, tucking his hands into his pockets.   “Erm… it may or may not be why they decorated my forehead.”

Simmons waited, one eyebrow raised, foot tapping out a Fred Astaire beat.  When he just stood there, all fidgety thumbs and ears like sun-dried tomatoes, she relented, throwing her hands up in surrender.  He gave her a puckish, half-guilty grin.   _The whole story will come out eventually.  No rush._  Fitz could tell her in his own time.

And besides, she’d just remembered something else.

“Jemma,” she declared.

His brows met, bisected by a vertical line.  “What?”

“My first name.  It’s Jemma.  Since I know yours…” his grimace settled any question of what to call him, “it seemed wrong to leave you at a disadvantage.”

“Jemma,” he tasted the word, rolling it around in his mouth.  He scrutinized her for the space of a long breath, far-off thoughts playing behind his irises.  “No.  I like Simmons.”

“Good,” she smiled, “because I like Fitz.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Father’s Day!
> 
> OK, fearless readers, who do you believe?  Is Fitz maybe exaggerating the situation with the bullies?  Being paranoid?  Or is Simmons too sweet for her own good, seeing the best in everyone?
> 
> Two different people.  Two different stories.  This is why you never trust an eyewitness account.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

_Oh, mother of all things._  Of course they’d bring up the TV.

It was hardly Fitz’s fault that he’d blown out the power and overloaded the old CRT.  It was the faulty wiring in these Academy buildings.  And if Fitz’s device had been pulling a bit too much voltage, well, that just meant it needed a redesign.  He decided Jonesy and Herrick were probably jealous -- the only invention those clods could come up with would be an inflatable dartboard or a chocolate kettle.   _That pair have delusions of adequacy._

How was Fitz supposed to know that they were watching the big pay-per-view fight in the other room?  The blockheads should have warned him off doing anything that could interrupt their viewing party.   _Leave a note next time, you nitwits._  Assuming they could figure out how to string three words together onto paper.

Truth be told, Fitz could probably fix the damn thing in his sleep.  But he was far from Herrick’s #1 fan, and thought even less of Jonesy.  Plus, for the last week he’d been rather appreciating the quiet in the dorm without the constant blare of a Nascar race, football game -- not football, _handegg_ \-- or wrestling match to distract him.  At least, until he’d fallen asleep and woken up with a trouser snake inked on his skin.  Since then, he’d been hiding out in the library, the wind tunnel, or the 24-hour student center, and had scantly gotten to enjoy the silence of his room.

Well, Lab 8 was as good a place as any to avoid those troglodytes.  Fitz cleared the negativity from his brain.  He didn’t need to worry about Jonesy and Herrick right now.  He was _finally_ going to make some headway on his drones.  Fitz pushed open the door to the lab, slurping on his 44-oz to-go cup of Sprite.  Simmons had nearly shrieked at him when he’d insisted that the sugar buzz helped his productivity.   _She’s so uptight!_  But he’d gotten his way, so that was the important thing.

Fitz made a beeline for the monkeys, stopping only to set his engineering case on the table by the outlets.  Pacino was dozing in his corner, the other three napping together in an adorable pile.  When Fitz stepped close, he opened lazy eyes which quickly widened in recognition.  Clacking his teeth together, Pacino pointed at Fitz, making a wordless demand.

 _The little trash compactor!_  “You remember me, hmm?  You hungry?”  Pacino blew out his lips in a raspberry before repeatedly crashing a small fist into his mouth.

“But I didn’t bring any crisps with me today…” Fitz teased.  Pacino’s chatter turned into a squawk as he voiced his discontent.  “Okay, okay, you win.”

Fitz pulled a sleeve of popcorn out of his back pocket.  “I have to zap this.  It’ll only take a second.”  Pacino slapped the floor.

He quickly stuck the snack into the microwave at the end of the lab counter and pressed the “popcorn” setting.  Before long, the smell of hot buttery delight wafted through the air, waking the other Zakadels.  They all crowded around the bars at the front of the cage, jabbering excitedly.  The baby-faced one -- _Sweet Pea, perhaps?_ \-- was jumping up and down, the most enthusiastic of the lot.   _You get an extra piece, cutie.  
_

 

“Fitz, what do you think you’re doing?”

 _So finicky._  “Simmons, if the microwave is here, obviously they intend us to use it.”

“That’s for preparing the monkeys’ oatmeal.  Not for you to add another food violation to our record.”

“I hardly think Kibbles and Bits are going to rat us out.  Besides, you don’t really care what those airheads think, do you?”  Fitz gave her his best pout, eyes pleading.

Simmons sighed heavily.  “I guess… you’ve already got your fizzy drink, and seeing as there was food here from before… Just-- leave me out of it, will you?”

“You’re the best, Simmons.”   _Is that a blush?_ Fitz didn’t mind charming her, even if it was a bit manipulative.

When her back was turned, he pulled his phone and other necessities out of his pockets and left them far down the table, then distributed a few kernels of popped corn to each of the monkeys.  He didn’t think she’d mind, but he didn’t fancy another reprimand.  Rules seemed pretty important to Simmons.  He was glad he didn’t see the world that way.  Life was much more fun when you didn’t mind stirring up a spot of trouble.

Taking a handful for himself, Fitz moved to where Simmons was already setting up the myomers next to the voltage regulators.   _Ah, yes, the project._  He was determined not to get sidetracked again.  At this rate, it would be Christmas before he could present a viable prototype.  He unlatched his crate, pulling out all the drone parts.

 

The myomers were string-like, long segments filled with acti-strandular fibers that would contract when a current was sent through.  Simmons showed him how to thread the myomers through his wings and stimulate them, causing the material to jump and various shapes to arise.  Once he saw the implications of this new tech, Fitz’s mind went barrelling at a hundred miles a minute.

“This is amazing, Simmons.”

“It was your idea, silly.”  She crinkled her eyes in amusement.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t going anywhere until you helped.”  Fitz was suddenly curious to see how much more pink her cheeks could turn.  “I’m serious -- this could revolutionize the aeronautics industry!”

Simmons grinned, fingers busy with the bioelectric polymers.   _She’s probably just smiling like that because she doesn’t understand._  Fitz was accustomed to talking about physics or engineering and getting a dopey smile or a blank stare in return.  Most of the time, Fitz ended up doing all the work himself, too irritated by stupidity to tolerate his lab partners for long.

But Simmons had thought of using the myomers in the first place, and she was a quick study -- he should try to include her in his process, even if it meant dumbing things down.   “Okay.”  He put on his “explaining” voice.   “Right now, planes that are designed for supersonic flight have completely different wings than those for subsonic speeds.  But--”

“--with deformable wings like these, you could create a standard set for all aircraft.  The same plane--”

“--could travel at vastly different velocities, without any worry for efficiency or stability.  Yes!”  Fitz was blown away.  “That’s it exactly!”

Her smile had gone from 60-watts to 100 in a span of seconds.  “Well done, Fitz!  You’ve created something wonderful.”

 _I didn’t do it alone._  But if she was going to give him credit, he’d be happy to accept, since it apparently went hand in hand with her admiration.

 

The mood changed a few minutes later, while they were cleaning up after their successful test run.  “Is that a gun?”

“Huh?”

Simmons gestured to one of his pistols, which he’d left on the table in the process of packing the drone.

“Yeah, it’s my assignment for Advanced Weaponry.  I carry all my unfinished tech together; it’s easier, and I can work on whatever I need to.”  Fitz noted her scrunching her nose in an expression of concern.  “Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe.”  He replaced it in the case, wanting to see her relax.  Fitz was very careful with his guns, and a crack shot, but Simmons couldn’t have known.

“It’s not that… I just didn’t realize you were so interested in weapons.”

“Well… it’s not all I do.  I also make robots and helpful gadgets.  I got my start building household appliances for my mum, did I tell you that?”

“Mmm, you did,” she agreed non-committally.  “Did you ever think of building non-lethal guns?”

Fitz furrowed his brow in befuddlement.  “Why?  This gets the job done.  It’s simple to use, easy to upgrade, and best of all, it’s compatible with existing S.H.I.E.L.D. parts.  I’ll most likely get the highest score in the class.  If S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t own my intellectual property, I’d be set for life.”

“That’s not the point!  Don’t you care that it kills people?”

Fitz shook his head, not quite believing this conversation.   _Poor, naive Simmons._  She thought guns were responsible for killing.  “Simmons.  Anyone who uses this is going to have been trained in a million ways to disarm and incapacitate their enemies.  If a field agent is shooting one of my guns, it’s because they _need_ to kill somebody.  Besides, what did you think you signed on for?  We’re not exactly run by Disney.”

“We’re not murderers either.  And maybe I signed up to find a way to make the world a better place.  Not to sow more violence and destruction.”  She was getting shrill, that tone she used when she was _so_ sure she was right.  Fitz wasn’t going to fall for it this time.

“We’re not the ones dealing death here, Simmons.  Scientists, you and me, we just build the things.” He pushed against the gale forces of her argument, trying to find the right tack.  “People can use almost anything for wickedness; does that mean we shouldn’t try to advance technology?  Wernher von Braun’s rockets helped kill thousands -- they also put a man on the moon.  Should he have squelched his passion for space exploration?  Where would we be now if he had?  You and I both know humans aren’t alone in the universe.”   _There, that’s set her straight._

“Von Braun was working for Hydra.”  She had her know-it-all face on.  “Not to mention, building rockets to the moon is _slightly_ different from making a gun with bullets designed to tear through someone’s flesh.”  Her voice softened.  “All I’m saying is people use the tools at their disposal.  And as the people who _make_ the tools, we can effect real change.”

Fitz held fast to his convictions.  Simmons was sounding much too high-handed to let her win.  “Well, we live in a world where supersoldiers and aliens and gods can attack at any time.  I’m okay with matching strength for strength.”

She looked at him with pity.   _Pity!_  “It shows more strength to spare your enemies.”

“You’re naive,” he muttered under his breath.  Fitz was done with this conversation.  He stalked off to retrieve his things from the lab counter by the cage.   _Phone, keys, wallet -- check._  His popcorn was almost entirely gone, though.  The package was out of reach of the monkeys, which only left one possible culprit.

“Simmons?”  He growled in accusation.

“Yes?”  She sounded annoyed.   _More like annoy_ _ **ing**_ _._

“Did you eat all my popcorn?”

“Honestly, Fitz?”   _Why’s she mad at me?  She’s the popcorn-thieving trollop._  “I’ve been right here the entire time.  And I’m not hungry.  And I would’ve asked.”

 _Enough of your lies, missy!_ Too many excuses always covered up a clumsy mistruth.  Fitz huffed.  He was ready to go someplace that didn’t have self-important girls all over it.  He grabbed the empty popcorn bag and his Sprite cup, wanting nothing more than to throw them in the trash and leave his current company.

And noticed the straw was missing.

Suddenly, it all made sense.  Fitz took one long stride back to the Zakadel cage.  Sure enough, Pacino was sitting in his corner, straw in hand like a scimitar, towel-cape spread over a suspiciously lumpy mound.

“I need my straw back, please.”  Given the evidence to date, Fitz had no reason to think this monkey wouldn’t understand him.

Pacino looked bored, making no moves to comply.

“Listen up, you little knave,” he whispered, his affectionate tone cushioning the words.  “If they find you with that straw, Simmons’ll get in trouble, and then I won’t be allowed in here.  Is that what you want?”

Pacino stared into Fitz’s eyes, dispassionate.  Then he jumped up, pointing at the empty popcorn bag.

“Christ.”  Luckily, there were a few kernels left.  “Just hurry up, before she sees us.”

He was a tad surprised when the trade-off worked.   _This monkey is somethin’ else._  He waved good-bye at the charismatic rogue.  “See you soon, smartypants.”

Pacino wiggled his fingers in return and gave Fitz a wide, toothy smile.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Delusions of adequacy” is a sick burn credited to theater critic Walter Kerr.  
> The science in this chapter is a hearty blend of real and fake.  Deformable wings _would_ optimize both super- and sub-sonic flight on the same airplane.  That type of deformable wings does not yet exist.  Source:  my awesome husband, who is an aerospace engineer.  
>  Info about Wernher von Braun, a.k.a. the Father of Rocket Science, comes from Wikipedia.  The dude was super interesting, y’all.  Look him up.  Also he was a Nazi.  
> In case this was unclear (please let me know and I’ll modify the chapter) Pacino was sticking popcorn with the straw (or holding onto it with suction) and drawing the pieces into his cage.  Way to use basic tools, Pacino.  
> Also, ABC is owned by Disney, so technically, S.H.I.E.L.D. is run by Disney.  Chew on that, Fitz.
> 
> You know what’s awesome?  Cream cheese jalapeño poppers.  Also, reviews.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

“You’re naive,”  Simmons heard him mutter before he stomped off to the monkey cage.   _And you’re callous._  How could Fitz think so little of human life?  Things went wrong on missions all the time.  The way he’d spoken, so blasé about the idea of getting rid of someone just because they were in the way.   _Henchmen and security guards have families, too, you know._  Fitz’s “do what you gotta do” attitude was an unwelcome surprise.

And he was so overbearing about it!  The argument had left them both in a contentious mood, so it was no great shock when Fitz, like a Scottish Ricky Ricardo, started in on her with some silliness about his popcorn.  Simmons only shook her head and finished packing up their things.

If she thought about it, though, Fitz had some compelling reasons for being angry at the world.  It was all over him: the unconscious way he seized up at the first sign of trouble, jumping at the slightest touch, the cynical comments and dolorous looks.  How he never talked about his father, even when he couldn’t shut up about his mum.  Fitz had gone through a crucible or two in the past, and had emerged hard and bitter on the other side.

And those two cavemen from the cafeteria certainly weren’t helping the situation.   _Enough is enough._  Fitz needed a champion, and Simmons was taking matters into her own hands.

“Here,” she said, lifting one handle of the tech crate.  “Let’s get this behemoth back to your room.”

 

* * *

 

Simmons sure was set on walking back with him.  Fitz didn’t trust it.

“This case is heavy, Fitz, and you’ve been carrying it all day.  I’m just trying to make sure you don’t throw out your back.”  She gave him a look he couldn’t identify.

“I haul the thing around with me all the time, Simmons.  It’s fine.  And you really don’t need to come to my dorm when it’s out of your way.”

“Fitz.  Let me help.”  He opened his mouth to protest again, but she silenced him with an arched brow and a significant pursing of her lips.  “I insist.”

 

 _What’s she up to?_  Probably looking to raid his candy stash.  Fitz basked in the knowledge that his sweets jar was currently empty except for the green apple flavored ones.  Sitting there, pretending to be lime, and once you got them in your mouth -- _Pow!_  Revolting.   _You just help yourself, candy bandit._  He chuckled, playing it out in his mind.

Until a weird thought blipped into his brain.  What if Simmons wanted to go back to his room and… do… kissing-related things?  She’d basically been all over him earlier, when he displayed his unappreciated genius in the lab.   _And mum did always tell me what a handsome fellow I am._  Fitz was taller than her, too, despite being younger.  Some girls liked that.  Although Simmons was so confident, she seemed like the sort that would want to tower over a man.  Fitz snorted.   _Good luck with that, 5’4”._

Suddenly his teeth tasted funny again.   _Calm down._  Simmons wasn’t some vapid bimbo, trying to seduce him.  She was nice, and clever, and might even be his friend.  Best of all, she was his all-access pass to a lab full of monkeys.  Fitz wondered how much he’d have to kiss her in order to keep hanging around.   _Good grief._  Life was much harder when you had something to lose.

He could do it, he decided.  So what if he’d never kissed a girl before?  It didn’t look so hard in the movies.  Fitz puffed out his cheeks in frustration.  It really wasn’t right of Simmons to treat him like a piece of meat.  He’d never have taken her for a succubus.   _If she’s doing this just to get at my crisps, she’s got another think comin’._

  
They reached his dorm room door, and Fitz mentally prepared himself for the onslaught of her mouth.   _You can do this, champ.  It’s only spit._  Tell that to a spitting cobra; they could blind you with one well-placed shot.  He twitched.  Best not to think about venomous snakes right now.  God, why couldn’t she be one of the Ops girls in their Daisy Dukes?  He wouldn’t mind kissing one of _them_ .  He couldn’t even imagine what Simmons would look like in cutoff shorts.  Well… Fitz shooed the picture out of his mind.   _Time to pay the piper._  He closed his eyes and leaned hesitantly toward his lab partner.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger?  *steeples fingers like a psychiatrist*  And how does that make you feel?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

_Poor thing, he’s exhausted._  Fitz’s eyes were closing, and he was swaying on his feet.  Simmons chided herself for not noticing how tired he’d gotten, and was extraordinarily glad she’d helped him carry his equipment.  They stood at his door, Fitz nearly off-balance as he tilted sleepily towards her, when it suddenly opened.  
The roommate was standing in front of them.

“Herrick…” Fitz squeaked, uncertainty shading his face, which was currently fluctuating between tomato orange and cherry red.

“Fitz!” He grabbed him by the shoulder.  “Just the man I wanted to see.”

Herrick turned to Simmons and gave her a disarming smile.  “You don’t mind if I borrow this guy for a minute, do ya?”  He pulled Fitz into the room.

 _Not a chance._  She’d seen Fitz’s head jerk up in alarm at the sight of the tall cadet.  “Why?”  She pushed through the door, her stance defiant.  “So you can attack him again?”

Herrick was flabbergasted.  “Whatcha talkin’ about, girl?”

“Let’s just say I don’t appreciate having to clean anatomically explicit graffiti off my friends.”

Herrick had the good sense to wince, sucking in air through his teeth.  He turned to Fitz.  “Hey, man, Jonesy was just joking.  You know that, right?”

Fitz held up his hands in a posture of vehement denial.  “Don’t look at _me_!  I told her it was nothin’ more than a prank.  I don’t know where she’s gettin’ this.”

 _No._ Herrick’s reaction was promising, but Simmons had no way of knowing if he was just putting on a show for her benefit.   _No, we’re dealing with this right now._  “I don’t think I care much for your idea of a _prank_ ,” she said haughtily.

“Whoa, there, settle down.”  Herrick stepped towards Simmons, full of dazzling dentalwork and conciliatory gestures.

“Don’t tell her to settle down!”

 _Oh, Fitz._  He was going to make this so much worse if he got combative.  “Why don’t you both take a pause and talk this out?  I’m sure there’s been some sort of misunderstanding.”  She closed the door, but stayed in the room.   _Just try to kick me out._

“Yeah,” Herrick’s voice implied the _duh_.  “I think we need to do that.”

 

He grabbed a couple of chairs from the small table, easing into one and sliding the other over to Simmons.  “Sit down, dude,” he motioned towards the squat loveseat.

They sat, Fitz sneaking suspicious glances at Herrick through the sides of his eyes.

Herrick laced his fingers together, leaning forward and resting his arms on his thighs.  “Fitz, man.  We were just playin’.  I thought you knew that!  And it’s not like you never got us  back… I always assumed you were havin’ fun too.”

Fitz looked highly uncomfortable.  He shrugged, picking at a small hole in his sleeve.

Herrick sighed.  “Beer?” he asked the room.  He scavenged the mini-fridge in the corner, getting each of them a frosty Shiner Bock.  Fitz twisted the cap with palms roughened by years in the metalshop, but Herrick flicked it off the sole of his boot like one of FDR’s Rough Riders.  Simmons wrinkled her nose at the unnecessary theatrics.   _Pompous arse._  She put her bottle on the floor, unopened.

 

Herrick returned smoothly to his previous pose in the chair.  “Okay, so what’s the problem?”

Fitz swallowed.  He looked at Simmons, lost as a baby duck, and she sent back warm reassurance with the set of her eyes and a nod of her head.

“Well… I don’t like you touchin’ my things.”

“Kid.”  Herrick’s tone was light, but insistent.  “I can’t walk out the door without touching this mess of yours.”  He shook his head matter-of-factly.  “Sometimes I gotta clean up.  People come here, y’know.”

Simmons hated to admit it, but Herrick had a point… the room as a whole was dotted with a few gadgets and machines, the occasional blueprint or sketch.  But the floor, and the backs of the chairs, sported cardigans, zip-ups and buttoned overshirts like patches on a giraffe.  If it was like this in the small sitting area, she paled to imagine the state of his bedroom floor.   _Has he never done his own laundry?_  With a start, Simmons realized Mrs. Fitz had always handled it.   _Add one more check box to the list._

“Okay, but what about that ‘Lucky Charms’ wisecrack?  What the Hell -- it’s not even the same country!  Have you ever seen a map that wasn’t on the back of a Happy Meal?”  Fitz’s eyes narrowed dismissively.

Herrick’s expression turned to badly concealed amusement.  “Do you mean when I _offered_ you some Lucky Charms?  I was tryin’ to be nice.  You seem to like carbs… _a lot_.”

Fitz was getting agitated.  “Oh, because you know me so well?  Is that why the pair of you are always usin’ my first name?  Which I hate, in case you need me to spell it out.”

Herrick’s restrained mirth started to bubble out, letting loose a disbelieving chuckle.  “Seriously?  How many times’ve I asked you not to call me Sherm, and you still do it?”

“Well I didn’t realize it was such a big deal!”   _Fitz does not like to be laughed at.  File that away under Important._  Fitz’s nerves had raised his volume beyond the levels of social acceptability.  Simmons had the disquieting, gratifying impression that it was her presence affording him this burst of verve.

“I’m not _that_ bothered by it,” Herrick conceded, with a casual hike of his shoulder.  “But it feels a little disrespectful when you ignore me.”

Simmons was glad that Herrick seemed to find his conduct funny instead of hostile, although not being taken seriously was setting Fitz off.  Silently, she willed the engineer to tone it down, wondering if she’d made a huge mistake by encouraging this confrontation.

“You know what’s disrespectful?  When you bastards talk shite about my mum.  That’s crossin’ the line!”  Fitz was still seated, but his fists had curled and his fingers were digging into his palms, turning the skin there a harrowing shade of cream.

“Look, buddy, I’m sorry we read the note on your care package.  But you can’t blame us for teasing you after somethin’ like that--”  Herrick affected a falsetto, in a cheap impression of Fitz’s accent, “‘Me precious darlin’, make sure ye dinnae drink too much coffee; ye know how it gives ye the runs.’”  Herrick punctuated his description with a rumbling bass guffaw.  “Far as nicknames go?   _Mama’s boy_ is… I mean, it’s accurate,” he sobered slightly, “So yeah, I think you’re overreacting.”

Fitz’s mouth flew open, flapping like an angry goldfish.  He jumped from his seat, waving his arms wildly.  “Overreac--!  You--!  YOU DREW A WILLY ON MY FACE!”

“Fitz...”  Herrick patted the air soothingly as his attitude took on a bargaining air.  For someone who behaved like such a clown, Herrick was adept at steadying himself.   _They must train in ways to keep calm under pressure,_ _interrogation tactics and the like._  “Clearly, there’s been a miscommunication.  I’m happy to hash it out with you, ‘cause we’re roommates, and we’re gonna have to live with each other for the rest of the year.  But right now?  You need to lower your voice and sit back down.”

Simmons hurried to the spot next to Fitz, gripping his hand and drawing him to the cushions.  A small voice needled that Fitz wouldn’t want her holding on like this, but she threw the warning out of reach, and was pleased when he didn’t pull away.

“First off, you’re yelling at the wrong guy.  Jonesy was mad about the TV--” Fitz tried to interrupt, and Herrick stopped him with an upraised hand, “--and when he saw you napping on the couch, he thought it’d be funny.  At least we didn't let you go into the cafeteria lookin’ like that.”

“You lot ambushed me outside the dining hall so you could laugh at me…”  Herrick stretched his lean torso and crossed his feet, waiting him out.  “I spent an hour in the toilets tryin’ to scrub it off… and I was late…” Fitz sputtered petulantly, but it lacked the zeal of his recent diatribe.  It seemed the tide had turned, from accusation to conversation.  Simmons took two deep, quiet breaths, one for each of them.

Fitz removed his fingers from hers and scraped the top of his head, fuzzing up the spirals in his hair.  Simmons resisted the impulse to run her hand back over his trajectory, smoothing the chaos.  “I think maybe Herrick and I can take it from here.  You should be gettin’ back to yours.”

“Are you okay?” she worried, keeping the question hushed.  “Do you need me to stay for a while?”

“Simmons, it’s under control.  You don’t have to hover.”  Some of the spirit had come back into his chest, and he was sitting straighter, shoulders strong.  Fitz got onto his feet and extended a hand to help her up.  Then, with an embarrassed flush and a nod towards his roommate, he started picking up discarded shirts.

 

As she headed out, she caught Herrick’s eye and gave him her most dangerous stare.  She checked to make sure Fitz was out of earshot.   “So.  Are you going to talk to Jonesy, or should I?”

Herrick chortled, as if she were a Chihuahua threatening a Doberman.  “Nah, Jonesy's kind of a douchebag, but he doesn’t mean anything by it.  That's just how he is.  He screws with _me_ all the time; it’s hilarious!"  She put a tidy dollop of skepticism into her glare, which Herrick tried to mollify with a grin.  "We _were_ just messin' around.  But I’ll handle it.  No need to go all Judge Dredd on him, too.”

Simmons couldn’t make heads or tails of Herrick.  Still, he did seem to own his twenty-odd years, surprising her with his maturity, and she felt safe thinking that no harm would come to Fitz after her willful intervention.  She could only hope those instincts were right.

“Hey, Fitz’s friend.”

“Simmons.”

“Simmons, you’re one tough son of a bitch.” He inclined his head in a charming salute, like an Old West bank robber tipping his hat.  "Come back and see us again real soon.”

She rolled her eyes as she shut the door behind her.

 

* * *

 

Herrick retrieved Fitz’s beer, handing it back to the young Scot.

“We cool, man?”

“Yeah, about all that… I shouldn’t have lit into you.  I’m a bit knackered, and it’s goin’ to my head.”  Even if all of their troubles had started because Jonesy and Herrick took some perfectly _innocuous_ comments the wrong way, Fitz was generous enough to realize he’d gone a touch hysterical earlier.

“Let me know if you want me to clear out so you can take a nap.”  Herrick gave him a serious look.  “ _After_ you fix my TV.”

Fitz scratched the back of his neck ruefully, chuckling.  “No problem.”  They clinked their bottles together and sipped wordlessly for a long minute.  Fitz broke the silence with a hint of humor in his tone.  “Sorry about Simmons; she’s quite a character, isn’t she?”

“She’s got moxie,” Herrick agreed, eyes wide.  “And she's totally into you, dude.  You should ask her out.”

Fitz’s mind roved to that moment when she’d held his hand, earth battling fire, tamping down his rage and bringing him back like an anchor in a tempestuous sea.   _It’s Simmons.  I can’t ask her out._  He squinted incredulously at Herrick.  “Now you’re just talkin’ crazy.”

 

Two days later, when Simmons arrived early enough to claim a spot at the front of Solomon’s classroom, Fitz left the back row and moved up to sit beside his friend.  And this time, struggling to pay attention through his disinterest, when Fitz started to wonder, ‘ _What's the point of this class again?’_ \-- well, he had only to look to his right.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn’t really think I’d let FitzSimmons’ first kiss happen while Fitz was thinking about cobras and other girls?
> 
> Lifehack -- if you want to win an argument, laugh at the person you’re arguing with. Be aware, though, that this will make them incredibly mad, and you’ll probably look like a jerk. But it is useful for keeping the fight from escalating, if it’s mostly one-sided.
> 
> I like reviews more than Bamm-Bamm likes to hit things with a club.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Over the next week, they sat together in class three times, studied at the library four times, and worked in the lab five times.  For two people who’d only met a few days ago, it should have been enough.  But it wasn’t.

 

-o-

Fitz felt exposed in his new seat at the front of the class.  He didn’t want to be caught off guard because he was focused on a math problem while Solomon went on about the government’s secret human experiments.  And unlike their first day, Simmons spent the whole lecture taking notes and wouldn’t go off-topic with him.  So Fitz listened, until it hit him that maybe Solomon didn’t want to hear his own opinions.   _After all, he already knows what he thinks._  Soon enough, Fitz started engaging Simmons in the ethics debates du jour. It was during these philosophical discussions that Fitz discovered he quite enjoyed winding Simmons up.

-o-

Using her occasional confusion with chemical engineering as an excuse, Simmons asked Fitz to meet up so they could review the study guides from their shared classes.  She immediately observed that despite his gruff demeanor, Fitz was the perfect tutor -- breaking down difficult concepts in a simple, visual way, with big gestures and funny labels.  He kidded her about how much she loved homework, and she actually got him to do Vaughn’s.  It was during these library sessions that Simmons discovered it didn’t take much prompting for Fitz to excel.

-o-

The stinky bio-lab was fast becoming one of Fitz’s favorite places.  Pacino and Sweet Pea greeted him every day; the first waving hello with bared teeth and a sense of entitlement, the other all bouncing knees and kissy faces.  As trial and error made Fitz aware of the distance necessary to keep his crisps safe, Pacino started pulling out the stops: from upside-down acrobatics hanging from the cage bars -- _Look Dad, no hands!_ \-- to stacking the toys around the enclosure into increasingly architectural towers.  Sweet Pea, for her part, needed no other coercion than to grip his finger with her tiny hands when he passed her a treat, squeezing so tight he thought his heart might explode.  It was during these lab hours that Fitz discovered just how badly he wanted his own monkey assistant someday.

-o-

Having lunch by herself wasn’t any picnic, but Simmons was determined to give Fitz his space.  Now that they’d cleared things up with Herrick, she felt it was time to back off from his personal life and focus on schoolwork instead. She knew she’d come on a little strong with the roommate incident, and while Fitz didn’t seem to be running, it had nevertheless been a risk.   _One that, thankfully, paid off._

But Simmons was far from done with this little enterprise, so she had to be careful.   _She_ wasn’t a bully, after all -- it wouldn’t do to scare him off with her meddling.  Given how he wore his heart on his sleeve, she could see Fitz didn’t go in for “too much of a good thing.”  So, to acclimate him to their budding friendship, that first week Simmons kept all interactions purely academic, focused on improving his grades before he could establish a pattern of apathy.  And as much as her plan was working, and she should have been pleased to leave well enough alone, every minute spent together was more fun than the minutes apart.  It was during those solo afternoons in the dining hall that Simmons discovered she missed Fitz when he wasn’t there.

 

* * *

 

Fitz found himself staring at Simmons, that night in the library.

“Explain to me why we’re studyin’ on a Friday?”

She stuck her tongue out at him.   _Cheeky._  “Well, _I_ want to sink my teeth into these dielectric deposition techniques tonight, while the lecture’s still fresh.  That way I can go back over them this weekend.”

Fitz rolled his eyes.   _This girl’s a regular Hermione Granger._

“As for why _you’re_ here, I need your help to fully wrap my head around how the ALD precursors react.”  She gave him a pleading look.  “You don’t mind, do you?”

Fitz went slightly rose-colored, glad that the dark green shades of the library lamps kept the atmosphere dim.  He sometimes got the impression Simmons understood more ChemE than she let on, but he found the pretense didn’t bother him.  Not when he’d been waiting to see her all through dinner, thinking of comic anecdotes to tell and wondering what new strain of the bubonic plague would have caught her interest this time.  “No, ‘course not.  I didn’t exactly have grand plans for tonight anyway.”

“Oh?”

Fitz shrugged.  He still wasn’t of age to be allowed in bars, and he didn’t really know anyone to go out with even if he’d been older.  But this didn’t seem like the right time to complain about his lack of friends.  However, it _did_ seem the perfect opportunity to ask Simmons if she wanted to go out with him on Saturday.

Herrick hadn’t brought it up again, but Fitz had spent several days rolling the suggestion around in his brain.  Honestly, after the way she’d pushed him into lunch a week prior, he’d been a bit surprised that Simmons wasn’t dragging him along to every meal.  Maybe a bit hurt as well.

Simmons, whose accent reminded him of his mum’s shows on the BBC and whose mugs of tea reminded him of his kitchen at home -- this girl, who made it easy to explain things to her, who understood him almost without the need for speech, who turned a blind eye when he snuck pretzels to the monkeys, who asked exactly the right questions and inspired him into the next phase of his inventions -- Fitz guessed he wouldn’t mind seeing a little more of her.

Fitz stood there, appreciating her in the soft glow of the lamplight, warring with his own insecurity as he tried to force out the words.  She beat him to the punch.

“Does that mean you don’t have any plans for tomorrow, either?”

“Erm…” Fitz’s voice sounded foreign, a higher pitch than usual.  He cleared his throat.  “Nothin’ I can’t cancel.”   _Smooth._  Fitz thought he might’ve made a good Ops agent, keeping his cool like that.

“Brilliant!  Do you want to hang out?”  Fitz’s stomach went pitter-pat.  “We could add a few pages to the lab write-up, or--”

_You sap, she just wants to do more work.  Well why the Devil wouldn’t she lead with that?_

“--or just… watch TV or something.  Oh, maybe not-- I know you don’t really watch much television--”

“No, that sounds fine.”  Fitz cut her off before she could change her mind.  He wasn’t such a knob that he couldn’t suffer through a few hours of some rubbish sitcom for the sake of polite company.   _And the TV’s right across from her bed._  For sitting on, of course, nothing untoward.  Fitz wasn’t some lothario.  His mum had taught him how to treat a lady.

“We’ll figure it out… let’s just play it by ear for now.”  Simmons’ skittish grin belied her casual words.

“Yeah, great.  No worries.”  Fitz’s nonchalance made him feel like a motorcycle tough from a 50’s diner.  “So what’s the issue with the ALD, then?”  He moved to lean over her notebook, his curls falling into his face before he swept them back with his non-pencil hand.

Simmons paused, looking up at his hair.  From this distance, her eyes were like amber in an ancient tree.  She took a breath.

“This is getting rather long, isn’t it?”  She pulled teasingly on a ringlet.

“I s’pose,” Fitz’s voice was neutral.  He hadn’t had a haircut in nearly two months.  The pause stretched until he felt the need to fill it.  “My mum usually cut it, back home.  Here?  I wouldn’t even know where to go.  Don’t want to end up lookin’ like Wolverine,” he joked awkwardly.

Simmons had a calculating expression that, Fitz had learned, usually meant bad news for him.

“You should let me do it!  Tomorrow.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I could do it!  I used to cut my siblings’ hair.”

‘ _Used to.’  That’s not a good sign._  Fitz waffled, torn between hurting her feelings and keeping his ears from ending up like Holyfield’s.  But if he was being honest, Fitz hadn’t been to the barber because he didn’t want a stranger’s hands on him.  And Simmons seemed so sure of herself, gazing at him with an enraptured face that meant she’d found a new distraction to obsess over.  Fitz didn’t like people touching him, but this wasn’t people.  This was Simmons.

“Oh, what the Hell.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don’t know anything about chemical engineering, but it seemed like the sort of class they’d have in common.  
> Dielectric whatsits and ALD this-n-thats are a real thing.  Just don’t ask me to explain them.  :-)  
> I apologize for the loss of Snarky Fitz in this chapter.  Can you believe, when he’s acting like a smitten kitten, he’s much nicer and less paranoid?  And all it took was Simmons punchin’ butt on some bullies and for her to draw back and make him miss her just a skosh.
> 
> When you review, it makes you the hero Gotham needs right now.  Wait, that means you’re _not_ Batman?  Oh, whatever.  You’re totally Batman.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

Fitz hesitated in the stairwell on the way up to see Simmons.   _Maybe I should’ve taken the elevator._  He lifted up one arm, then the other, checking for stinky pits.

That morning, Jonesy had stuck his head into Fitz’s room.  The why would doubtless remain a mystery, because almost as soon as he took in the sight, Jonesy had burst out laughing, an irritating peal that made Fitz’s nails turn white.

“Dude, if you ever wanna get laid, you gotta clean up this pigsty.  It smells like nard sack in here.”  He’d thumped the wall above Fitz’s light switch to emphasize his point.

Herrick had promptly joined Jonesy at the door frame, ribbing at his friend.  “Man, at least he doesn’t spray Febreze everywhere ‘til it reeks like flowers _and_ ass,” he’d teased, pretending to gag and chucking Jonesy on the arm.  

The two had jostled out of the dorm a few minutes later, and Fitz had been left to fret.  The weather had been blessedly mild that month, so it wasn’t like Fitz had sweated in his clothes.   _I mean, of course I sweat, but it doesn’t smell_ _ **that**_ _bad._  And he showered daily, so his hair and skin were never funky.   _It’s not a big deal.  Jonesy’s just being a twat, as usual.  
_

Fitz’d had perfectly good reasons to avoid doing the laundry.   _I’ve only been busy adjusting to a major life change, thank you very much._  When he’d arrived in America, he figured he’d wear his clothes until he ran out of clean ones.   A problem for another day, or so he’d rationalized.  Well, given he’d just dug the last viable pair of underpants and socks out of his dresser, today -- _or really, tomorrow, if I’m careful_ \-- was shaping up to be that day.

He didn’t have long before he needed to leave for Simmons’, so the washing would have to wait until after his haircut.   _Just as well._  His shirt would probably be covered in snippets, so it made a great deal of sense to do it later.  Fitz chose his second-best pair of jeans (which, luckily, Herrick had accidentally thrown in with his own laundry a few days before) and an overshirt that hadn’t seen more than two or three uses.  This would be fine.  He congratulated himself on his rational and poised assessment of the situation.

But he hadn’t counted on the sun coming out to battle the cool wind that swirled through the courtyard.  Lugging his things up the stairs, Fitz became aware of the warmth, that damp-from-the-sauna feeling inching over him as he hiked up to the fourth floor.   _It’s going to be all right._  He wasn’t some wet dog -- he’d bathed; he’d brushed his teeth.  Now, it was time to trust the good people at Old Spice Antiperspirant to keep him springtime fresh.

 _Fresh._  Now there was an apt word for Simmons.  Everything about her was new and simultaneously familiar; Fitz didn’t think he’d ever get bored.  He hadn’t felt this way about a girl since learning that the beautiful actress who played Queen Amidala in _Star Wars_ was multilingual and had been published in scientific journals.   _Simmons has been published loads of times._ She was great at all that scholarly mumbo-jumbo.  It was part of the reason Fitz had brought along their lab notes, a few unfinished machines, and his toolkit.  Simmons seemed to dislike wasted time, and if ( _when_ ) she decided to do more homework that afternoon, he didn’t want to be left out.  The extra supplies did, however, weigh him down.   _If I ever build a time machine, I’m killin’ the man who invented stairs._

 

* * *

 

Simmons had spent the past several hours watching YouTube hairdressing tutorials and getting increasingly frustrated.  When she’d made the offer to spend Saturday afternoon with Fitz, she’d originally intended to tackle the next item on the agenda: his obvious inability to do the laundry.  But social graces hadn’t quite allowed her to bring it up, unsure how to broach the subject without being rude.  So when Simmons’ focus had been drawn to his shaggy hair, she’d been delighted.   _That’s just as important as laundry._  A good style could make the man.  If she managed to pull it off.

She’d cut her siblings’ hair before, that part was true.  What she’d neglected to mention was that she’d used her kid brother and sister as practice, while working as a groomer in the rescue shelter where they all volunteered.  Still, Fitz’s curls reminded her of a poodle she’d once worked on.   _It can’t be that different, can it?_   It was going to be all right.

She went a bit like jelly at the thought of how implicitly Fitz must trust her.  She knew he didn’t suffer being touched very well, and although she was trying to respect that, his attitude went opposite to her own tactile instincts.  And yet… a haircut was an intimate thing.  For Fitz to let her do this, when they’d only just become friends… Simmons pulled in a long breath.  She couldn’t mess it up.  

She heard Fitz at the door and skipped to open it.  He was slightly red in the face, and she realized she was too.  It was undoubtedly down to the way heat pooled on the top floors in these old dorms -- poorly ventilated and with less-than-stellar air conditioning.  She stood to the side and ushered him in.

“Right on time!” she beamed.  “I’m excited about this.  It’s going to be so much fun!”  She thought she might be laying it on a touch too thick, but her nerves needed an outlet.  “Right.  So I thought, I have a fair idea of what to do, but if you want to look at the photos I tabbed,” she handed Fitz a salon magazine, “you can tell me what looks good to you.”

Fitz blinked like she’d just handed him a trout.  He pawed stiffly through the pictures before letting out a guttural noise of acquiescence.  “Whatever you think’s best, this was your idea.”

“Very well, then.”  She fanned herself with the corner of a towel.  “Sorry it’s a bit stuffy in here.  I really wish the windows opened, especially as it’s such a lovely day.”

For a second, Fitz reacted strangely, hunching in on himself self-consciously.  Then a random fact must have fizzed through his head, because he slid into did-you-know mode. “The windows opened, back when the buildin’ was built.  They were sealed shut in the 80’s, but the latches and all are still there…”  With a hint of -- _relief?_ \-- Fitz bent to snap open his toolbox.  “I could sort that for you, if y’ like.”

“No, no, I don’t think the Academy wants us to open them.  Something about a fire hazard?” Simmons protested, but wished (not for the first time) that she wasn’t such a stickler for following rules.  It really was gorgeous outside, and breezy, and sunny, and-- “Oh, you know what, go on then.”

Fitz flashed her a quick grin, and set to work creating a small crack along the length of the seal.  “This shouldn’t take me more than ten minutes,” he declared confidently.  “And I can put everythin’ back the way it was, whenever you want.”  

Simmons was in the midst of returning his smile when her phone sang out -- the Doctor Who ring tone she reserved for her parents.  “Er…” she began apologetically, “do you mind?  It’s my mum and dad.  I missed their call this morning, and they’ll be busy later.”

“Go ahead,” Fitz encouraged, with a look that said he understood homesickness.  “I’ll come find you when I’m done.”

Simmons shouldn’t have been surprised Fitz was being so sweet.  It was rapidly becoming clear that under his hard crunchy outside, this Smartie had a soft candy center.   _Now we just need to update the packaging._

 

Simmons answered the phone and walked into the hall to chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally had Fitz’s crush be on Cindy Crawford, because she was valedictorian of her high school and went to Columbia on scholarship to study chemical engineering.   But, she left college to pursue modeling, so I decided to change it to Natalie Portman.  Also, I didn’t include Portman’s name because she played Thor’s girlfriend so I don’t know how that all works.
> 
> Smarties are like British M&M’s.  I just thought it was cute because Fitz is so smart.
> 
> My parents are in town this weekend so I may not get a chance to update for a couple days.  In fact, this little bit has already eaten up the time I should have spent cleaning for them.
> 
> Don’t let my messy house be in vain!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Humming, Fitz turned the hand crank on the old casement window, angling the glass panes up and out from the wall, a few degrees at a time, until they were nearly perpendicular.  Soon enough a light gust of wind twirled through the room, flushing out the torpor.  Fitz nodded in satisfaction as he admired his handiwork.  The cracks were virtually imperceptible when closed.   _Simmons’ll like that._  It wouldn’t do for her to get fined over a tiny alteration. And most importantly, he’d aired out any sign of B.O.  

Fitz had nearly chickened out of the whole plan earlier, when he’d felt the thin sheen of perspiration turning his skin tacky.   _What’s Simmons gonna think if I go in there sweatin’ like a pall-bearer at a fat chap’s funeral?_  Her little dig at his punctuality hadn’t gone unnoticed, either.  But before he could tell her the deal was off, he’d recognized the indices of classic Simmons over-preparation: that dog-eared gossip rag she’d shoved at him, the barbershop wiki still up on the monitor, her face bright as Christmas morning -- _probably thinking of all the new techniques she’s learned to make me look like Justin bloody Timberlake.  
_

Confronted with that caliber of enthusiasm, Fitz couldn’t possibly put her off.  And then, naturally, she’d suggested opening the window.   _Simmons has the best ideas._  The more he thought about it, the more he supposed her hands would feel quite nice in his hair.   _It’s not every day you’re petted by a pretty girl._  His smile a bit dopier than the norm, Fitz went to track her down.

 

He heard her around the corner of the hall.  More specifically, he heard his name.

“... friend Fitz is waiting for me to cut his hair.”  Pause.  Then a sort of laughing denial that bordered on discomfort.   “ _Daa-ad!_  He’s like my little brother!”  

Fitz froze.   _Her_ _**little brother** _ _?!_  He wasn’t sure which bothered him more.  Surely the “little” part.  Yes.  “Brother” he could handle -- _She’s already like a sister; sisters are annoying, right?_ \-- but having Simmons think of him as some small, weak, frail thing was just-- well, it was-- _goddamned unacceptable, is what._

 

She was talking again, and although Fitz’s mum’s words floated by -- _Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves!_ \-- he simply couldn’t help listening in.

“... not _that_ strange, and I like helping him out.”  Another pause, capped by exasperation.  “He’s _nice_ , Dad.  Honestly!”

 

Fitz had heard enough.  He spun and made his way silently back to the room, mind racing.  Simmons thought he was _strange_?  Was that why she’d been “helping him out”?   _Like I’m one of those mangy curs in the Sarah McLachlan videos!_  Well, this explained the way she’d bulldozed into his life.  She clearly thought he couldn’t manage it alone, probably thought she was doing him a favor by being his friend.   _What the Hell?_ Fitz needed that type of friendship like a hole in the head.   _He_ found solitude reassuring.  Loneliness was a blanket he could duck under with his torch and a comic book and hide from the world.  Fitz loved being on his own.  He didn’t need some high-and-mighty adolescent intervening on his behalf.

 _And just where exactly does she get off feeling sorry for me?_ Simmons was the one whose attitude needed a tweak.   _She_ was so unrealistic that she believed in evil, but not in killing.   _She_ was so gullible she’d do practically anyone’s homework, if Fitz weren’t around to look mean and scare the vultures off.   _The world’ll chew ‘er up and spit ‘er out, just as soon as she sets foot outside this campus._  If anyone had cause to pity anybody around here, Fitz thought Simmons had gotten it backwards.

 _And now that pushy strumpet thinks she’s gonna cut my hair?_  He groaned inwardly, a dozen terrifying options rolling through his brain.  This could all have been an elaborate prank, the last week.  Perhaps she intended to brand him with a hairstyle that matched his “strange” personality, or make him into her little brother’s doppelgänger.  Suddenly apprehensive, he hurried to the bulletin board, scanning the photos until he found the tyke in question.   _Oh, sweet Mary.  A bowl cut._  The kid was basically He-Man.

Fitz peered at the conundrum from all sides, trying to find a best-case scenario.  It almost seemed like she was trying to replace his mum -- checking his schoolwork, fighting his bullies, trimming his split ends.   _Well, I already have a mum, a wonderful one, so you can piss off._  What was she going to do next, take away his junk food?  Start a swear jar?   _That uppity little busybody._  This wasn’t some twisted production of _My Fair Laddie_.

 

Fitz had been fine before Simmons came along, and if _that_ was how she felt, he could handle his own problems from now on.   _I’ll show her._  He’d show them all.

 

* * *

 

“Sorry about that!  I didn’t take too long, did I?”  Simmons was all sunshine as she walked in the room, resolutely ignoring her father’s voice in her head.  He’d riled her up a bit, telling her it was strange to cut a friend’s hair, asking if they were anything more… but she’d been waiting too long to get her hands on those curls -- _to cut them, of course_ \-- to be deterred now.    This wasn’t _not_ something friends did.   _And so what if I’ve never properly cut a man’s hair before?_  She was certain she could execute the task with Fitz none the wiser.

 

Simmons felt a briskness in the air flutter over her shoulders.  “Oh, look at the window!”  Elated, she stepped over to investigate, only to be astonished by the precision and care Fitz had put into camouflaging his modifications.  “It’s perfect.  Oh, Fitz… thank you.”

He was quiet, a tad sullen, but then again, neither was too unusual for Fitz.   _Well, if he won’t accept my thanks in words, I’ll just have to make this the best haircut ever._  Before she could lose that optimism, Simmons wrangled him into the small shared bathroom and sat him on a low stool in front of the sink.  

“You’re not going to give me a fringe, are you?”  He sounded abnormally defensive.

She draped two towels over his shoulders, folding a third into a pillow at the edge of the washstand, and knelt in front of him.

“No,” she reassured, pulling the curls on both sides of his face out to check their length.   _Lord, that’s soft._  Something odd passed over Fitz’s countenance.

“I’d better not turn out lookin’ like Dennis Rodman!”

“I think that would require polyjuice potion…” she chuckled, turning on the tap and testing the warmth on her wrist.  She pushed on Fitz’s shoulder, trying to ease him backwards into the basin, but he resisted -- _he’s stronger than he looks_ \-- twisting like he thought the sink was filled with scorpions.

“Stop squirming, Fitz.  You’re as bad as--” _a Dalmatian_ “--a two-year-old.”  She put a giggle in her voice, flustered by the near-slip.

Something dark went into Fitz’s eyes at her comment, and he transitioned abruptly into compliance, dropping his head back into the stream.  “Just get it over with,” he muttered.  Simmons had a flash of doubt.   _Is this too much?_  She didn’t want to strain things with Fitz, not now that he’d begun lowering his walls.  But unless he could wash his own hair at that awkward angle, she could hardly leave him be.

“That’s much better,” she reassured him, cupping water in her palms and splashing it slowly over the crown of Fitz’s head.   _My kingdom for a spray attachment._  Judging by his immaculate work on the window, Fitz could have probably installed one for her in seconds, and Simmons chastised herself for not acquiring the extra hardware.  At least the faucet was high enough not to bump him.  She squeezed a glob of shampoo into her hands and started rubbing it into Fitz’s scalp.  His eyes closed, and for a second, he relaxed into her hold.

Just for a second, though.  Almost immediately, they flew open.

“Aeroplanes!”

“Come again?”  She scrubbed her fingers down to his scalp, rinsing the shampoo.   _Of course he’s thinking about the drones._  Fitz was quite difficult to distract from his favorite subjects.

“I was just thinkin’ that…” Simmons dispensed the conditioner into her palm “... if I built a jet that could travel at…” she combed the balm through his curls, kneading his skull “... Mach 7, the air pressure at that velocity…” his voice wavered as she pulled more water through his hair, “... would be so high that the engine…” Fitz’s tone firmed, and he ended exultantly “... wouldn’t even need a compressor!”

“So the fuel combustion would happen in supersonic airflow.”  Fitz looked impressed, and Simmons felt a prickle of smugness creep into her lips.   _You’re not the only clever one here._

“But don’t you need a compressor while you’re accelerating to Mach 7?”  She placed a towel over his forehead and sat him up, scraping the terry cloth in energetic circles as she dried.

“Ah, yes, very good!” came the muffled reply.  Where someone else might’ve called her a naysayer, or been angry at her poking holes, Fitz seemed to welcome the question.  “But if I build the plane to re-form itself into the most efficient configuration at every speed, I can get by with a much smaller compressor than I’d need otherwise.  Or, I s’pose, you could put my jet aboard another larger plane--”

“--to get it up to speed?”

“Yeah, most of the way… with somethin’ like a rocket boost to give it that last surge of power.”  _He really is quite genius at this._

“That’s brilliant, Fitz.  You should do it!”

“Oh, well…” His ears were rosy from the friction.  “It’s all theoretical at this point; S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t clear me for a project of that scale ‘til third year, and that's if I’m lucky.”  Whatever had been weighing him down, it had evaporated, at least for the moment.  “But I do hope to create my own full-size plane, someday.”

“I’m sure you will.”  Simmons felt a rush of sadness at the thought that they were nearly done with their own collaborative project, but she knew it down to her bones: Fitz would see all of his designs realized.   _Only a world made of fools would ignore him._

 

She smiled at the boy whose dreams were as wide as the sky.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fun science!  There really is a jet that goes at Mach 7 and doesn’t require a compressor.  It’s called, I kid you not, a scramjet.  And it does need to be kicked up to near-hypersonic speed before it’s useful, which means using other planes, and extra propulsion, and it’s all very complicated and work-intensive and costly.
> 
> “Fringe” is what Brits call bangs -- as always, I’m not an expert, so please correct me if I’m wrong.
> 
> Sorry (not sorry) for Fitz apparently being relegated to the friendzone.  But are you at least a little pleased by the return of paranoia-fueled, snarky Fitz?


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

_Hmmph._ The next time Fitz did home improvements on Simmons’ dorm, he’d better be paid for his trouble.  Professional.  Impersonal.   _Yeah, that’s how it is._  Fitz had gathered his things, intent on legging it before she hung up with her parents.   _No way am I lettin’ that she-devil near me with a blade._  He’d just scribbled an excuse on a Post-It when Simmons waltzed in the room, all gracious and chipper, pretending she hadn’t just sold him out like a Rolling Stones concert.

That Post-It ended up much like his hopes of escape -- crumpled and hidden.

 

He’d meant to tell her exactly where she could shove her haircut.   _Honest._ But then she’d started in with her crafty feminine wiles, all sweetly appreciative, and suddenly she was petting his hair, and Fitz dared to think maybe she hadn’t meant those cruel things she’d said.  Until she called him a child again -- _no, not even that, a toddler!_ \-- and he’d gone tense, transported back to her words in the hall.

Well, Fitz could hold still as well as anyone if he had to, but he didn’t need to like it.  Never mind that the hot trickle of water was waking up his skin like a brass band.  Forget that Simmons was running her fingers over him with exactly the right pressure to make him lean into her touch.  Fitz scrabbled to retain his indignation as Simmons’ nails went from lightly grazing to thoroughly distracting, slingshotting his thoughts into alien territory and making every muscle rebel against him.  

 _None of that, you._ He replayed the “little brother” comment to himself, like an obnoxious website ad on loop.  Her hands lathered something soft and ambrosial into his curls, the sense memory overwhelming.   _Stop it._  He mustn’t forget why he was angry at Simmons…  Simmons, who smelled of snickerdoodles.   _Quit!_ Fitz thought instead about spiders.  Pus.  Rugby.  Physics.

“Aeroplanes!”

He’d begun making stuff up then, spitballing design ideas to keep his brain occupied as she did decadent things to his scalp.  And of course she was Simmons, and caught the gist of his techno-babble the minute it fell out of his mouth, considering his words and responding constructively, until he felt warm from the inside out, and not simply from the water.  

So it happened that Fitz was feeling especially pliable when Simmons pulled him into a chair in the middle of her room, barely even complaining when he couldn’t see the mirror.  After all, Simmons could be some styling guru, and he’d come out of it looking fantastic.  He should probably just belt up and trust her.  In the time he’d known her, Fitz reasoned, she’d proven herself more than skillful.   _The only thing Simmons is bad at is stayin’ out of my business._  Maybe that was okay too.  He _had_ been rather liking her, until that mess in the hallway.  And he didn’t like _anyone_ , so...  Simmons must be pretty special.  He was glad he’d stuck around after eavesdropping on her.  Of course, ditching had never _really_ been an option.   _What would mum think?_  Fitz had been brought up right.  He couldn’t just sneak out like a fart in church.  

The comb in his hair snapped him out of his reverie, plastic teeth across his neck igniting sparks up his spine.   _Not this again._  Fitz started brainstorming projects to take on after they finished the drones, with a hitch in his gut at the knowledge that they _would_ finish the drones before long.

 _Snip._  No turning back now.   _Snip, snip._   The combination shot of her brushing and tugging at his locks felt like a lullaby.  Fitz sagged into the pull, less than cognizant of his movement until Simmons teased out a warning.

“Better not wiggle too much, or I can’t vouch for your ears.”  Her voice carried a joking note that did very little to soothe Fitz’s sudden premonition of carnage.

Whether Simmons was being funny or not, the implication was so similar to Fitz’s initial concerns about this cockamamie scheme -- _did she read my mind?_ \-- that his back went ramrod straight, and he vowed to keep his head pointed directly forward until she told him otherwise.  Luckily, he was facing a framed photo of Simmons posing before a magnificent waterfall.  The mist formed a rainbow in the background, and water droplets sparkled in her hair, magicking her into a creature of legend.   _Well, it’s no ‘Dogs Playing Poker.’_  But there were worse things he could look at.

A light scratching at the nape of his neck catapulted him into dangerous speculation.   _Science.  Now._  “So what we should do for our next project?” Fitz blurted out, desperate to fill in the blanks of his brain.  

They both blinked at the unexpected question.   _What was that all about?_  Fitz didn’t even know if she wanted to collaborate with him again.  She could just as easily leave him with a purple mohawk and go about her merry way.  And why would he work with someone who, he suspected, only tolerated him out of a sense of charity?   _Because you can’t lose the only friend you’ve got, Han Always-Solo._  He wanted to punch that tiny voice, but it was right.  He held his breath and waited for her answer.

The Earth halted its rotation in the seconds before she spoke.  “Actually, I do have a few ideas you might help me with.”   _Snip._  The world resumed spinning.  “I’ve devised a chemical reaction that creates a high-powered burst of artificial sunlight with antibiotic properties, but I need a delivery mechanism…”

They chatted about the logistics as she continued to clip away.  Fitz was a tad worried by her carrying on about chemistry with scissors in hand, but thankfully Simmons seemed more than capable of multi-tasking.   _No surprise there._  He was, however, extra careful to keep completely motionless when she worked around his ears.

Finally, just as he was starting to get a crick in his shoulders from holding his head steady, Simmons announced, “Nearly done!  I’ll tidy up the sides and taper the neckline, and then you can see.”

She sounded relieved -- much to Fitz’s alarm.   _What’s she got to be relieved about?!_  Had she been operating all this time without any confidence?   _Oh, God._  Simmons was crap at haircuts.   _I knew it._  There was a buzzing in Fitz’s chest, a nest of wasps over his diaphragm.  He crossed his fingers and squeezed his eyes shut, hugging his arms.  She’d said she only had the last bit to finish.  Surely, she couldn’t ruin it with so little left.   _Just don’t move.  It’ll all be fine if I just stay still._

 

Fitz’s eyes popped open at the sudden commotion behind him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [starbrightnights](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starbrightnights/) for her help with the beginning of this chapter.  
> Any resemblance to a real haircut is probably accidental. I do not know how to cut hair. People’s or dogs’.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

Simmons was dancing on air.   _Fitz wants to partner again!_  She’d barely had time to realize how much she’d miss him in the lab, when he’d tossed out the offer as if the thought of ending their collaboration had never crossed his mind.  The crack in her heart that had formed that first day -- the one allowing her to feel sympathy for a sullen, defensive kid -- now spiderwebbed into a network of fissures, all of them leaking joy.

Fitz challenged her.  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see _that_.  They’d been bouncing off each other in the lab all week.  Where Simmons had originally created the myomers, Fitz had thought of countless new ways to use them in his inventions -- not to mention the astounding speed at which he’d picked up her techniques for shaping the biomimetic fibers.  

Her relationship with Fitz wasn’t just academic, though.   _He’d probably drag me_ _**away** _ _from studying if I let him._  He already teased her mercilessly about the time she spent on what he called “donkeywork” --  _and he’s not wrong_ \-- since several of their freshman classes covered subjects they’d both mastered.  And yet Fitz had never asked her to do his assignments for him, not even in the classes he didn’t enjoy.  In fact, he’d taken to snapping at anyone that approached them in the library, --  _possessive, almost_ \-- but given that it freed her from rejecting pleas to “borrow” her notes, Simmons only smiled apologetically, and silently thanked him.

Fitz didn’t take advantage.  His motives were straightforward: he wanted to work on his machines, and now that they were friends, he expected Simmons to help improve them.  Her previous lab partners had always made her feel slightly manipulated -- with Fitz, she felt valued, and she was waking up to the fact that their time together was more rewarding than anything she’d been part of before.  

If Simmons was a flower, then Fitz was a bee, taking her raw ingredients and turning them into something amazing.  And like a bee disseminating pollen, Fitz’s inventions would pull her own works out of the lab and into the world so they could be useful.   _A bee may sting --_ if handled incorrectly -- _but it has the capacity for sweetness_.

 

Her mind thusly occupied, Simmons finished snipping at Fitz’s silky locks, and found another reason to be thrilled.  

 _I made it!_  She’d muddled through her first high-stakes haircut.  The only thing left was to check him over for those tricky longer bits.  The cut looked good -- a bit shorter than she’d intended, perhaps, because she hadn’t realized how tightly the curl would dry, but overall, a vast improvement over the disheveled mop it had been.

With short hair, Fitz looked… _ahem._  Taller.  More grown-up.   _Exactly what he needs._ Scaling back the volume and frizz on the sides of his face made his features stand out, striking in the late afternoon sun that dappled the room.   _Was his chin always that square?_  And if she was looking at his chin, there was no way to ignore his rosy lips or that large, beautiful mouth.  Fitz had his eyes closed, unconscious of her gaze on him.   _Am I staring?_  Curious now, Simmons began to catalogue the angles of his nose, the set of his cheekbones, the curves of his ears.  She found herself wishing for the beryl blue of his eyes, but they stayed shut.  Clenched shut.

 _Oh, dear._ His entire face was twisted, and he was gripping his arms like a lifejacket.  She’d made him afraid.   _What did I do?_  Was it all the physical contact?   _But he was getting better about that.  Damn it, Jemma…_ She’d known he wasn’t comfortable with touch, and there she went, spoiling things.   _If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my own thoughts…_ She should have noticed he wasn’t comfortable.  She could have eased back, given him a respite.   _Selfish._  She breathed in, settling herself.   _We’re almost done._  Once she took her hands off him, and Fitz saw how nice he looked, surely then he’d calm down.

As she snicked off one particularly lengthy stowaway directly behind his left ear, a loud crash off to her side whipped into her attention.  It was a bird, a dark one about the size of a man’s shoe, and it was flapping about the room so quickly that she couldn’t have said anything else.

 _Why in God’s name did we open the window?!_  Simmons cursed as she jerked away from the creature, which was headed towards them like a bullet.  Fitz, to her confusion, was still sitting frozen in the exact same position he’d been for the last half hour.   _Goodness, I’ve broken Fitz._

“Fitz!  Duck!  Move!”

He shook off his catatonia and jumped from the chair, knocking it over.  The added noise escalated the pandemonium, and he started shouting.

“That’s not a duck!”

“What?”

His pitch rose higher and his arms windmilled around his body while the bird flapped just above him.  “Get it away!  Get it away!”  She’d never heard such a sound from a male throat.

Simmons grabbed a towel.   _If I can net it with this…_ The thing was flying at Fitz, at the door, over her shelves, anywhere besides the way it had come.  It _thunked_ into the wall and kept moving, dazed but destructive as ever.

Poor Fitz was shrieking now, his volume keeping pace with the chaos.

“It shat on me, Simmons!   _Do something_!”

They needed to get it back to the window.   _A lure._  Simmons spotted a box of granola on the shelf and grabbed it.   _That’ll work as birdseed._

“Fitz!  Use this!”  She threw him the box.  Fitz was closest to the windowsill -- if they could just get the bird over there, this would all sort itself out in no time.

Before she could explain any of that, Fitz chucked the box at the creature, bringing it to the ground with a heavy-sounding _paff_.

“Fitz!  What did you _do_?”  His aim was remarkable, but Simmons was too upset to care.

“What’re you talkin’ about?!  I’ve just saved us both!   _You’re welcome…_ ”  Fitz was still yelling, his expression snippier than the pair of scissors in Simmons’ hand.

Simmons looked at him, flabbergasted.

“I didn’t mean for you to _kill_ it!”

“Chrissakes… you’re siding with this guano factory?”  Fitz waved a hand at the inert bird on the rug, his face red.  “Don’t get sore with _me_ when I was the only one doin’ anythin’ about it.”

He _what_?  Oh, of course he would think that.   _A bird got in the room, let’s murder it.  It’s the_ _ **only**_ _sensible course of action._  Simmons attempted to roll her eyes, but her brain fried as she fought for what to say.

Fitz continued with his smart-mouthed attitude.  “None of this would’ve happened anyway, if _you_ hadn’t wanted to open the window.”

This boy did not know when to put a sock in it.  “ _I beg your pardon?_   A fingerprint analysis will show _I_ was nowhere _near_ that window.”

 

But Fitz wasn’t listening.  He was staring in the mirror, face going from anger to horror as one hand rose to his ear.  “The _Hell_ did you do to me, woman?!”

 

A trickle of blood ran over his palm.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haircuts are exciting, y’all!  And I don’t just mean in the way Fitz was getting excited last chapter.  
> I bet at least half of you had guessed the reason behind the commotion.  You smart, lovely, pretty people.  
> I feel like maybe Jemma’s bit ran long in the beginning, but I was getting some feedback that she doesn’t respect Fitz enough, so I wanted to emphasize that at this point, she does care for him, _and_ is trying to look out for him.  Jury’s still out on the attraction.
> 
> \- start tangent -  
> If you’d like to see what I picture a short-haired 17-yr-old Fitz as, go check out Iain De Caestecker’s cancelled-before-its-time horror series The Fades.  There are tons of close-ups of his face and you can see exactly what I mean about the handsomeness.  Of course he also looks (and acts) quite young in it, so you might need to make peace with your cougar side.  The show is fantastic (Amazon Prime members can stream it for free) and Iain, as expected, is great as the lead.  There are also several scenes you can use to make Fitz gifs, if that sort of thing is your bag.  
> \- end tangent - 
> 
> So do you think Simmons lost any of that respect when he screamed like a tiny baby because a bird flew by?  And, also, was that enough commotion for you?  (Hint: it wasn’t.  There’s just a skosh more commotion still to come.)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

  
Fitz was fuming.

  
Simmons was all bent out of shape over the dead bird on her floor.   _Daffy witch._  She’d probably called the blasted thing in the first place with some kind of cartoon-princess voodoo.   _Erm, excuse_ _**me** _ _, Snow White, but I’ve only just rescued your furniture from that avian menace, and, oh -- saved you as well._  Simmons had been hemming and hawwing, lamely holding out a towel out like a trainee bathroom attendant; then she’d had _one_ good idea -- tossing Fitz a weapon -- and he, channeling his inner Olympian, shot-putted the threat out of the sky with sniper-like precision.   _Huh.  I_ _**would** _ _make a good Ops agent._

Fitz 1 - Birds 0

He’d been rather proud of himself until Simmons began to screech like an old tire.  Really, she _should_ be thanking him for leaping into action, all grace and danger like a bronzed Scottish samurai -- he’d even caught one of the monster’s droppings on his sleeve, which Fitz thought counted as a battle wound.   _If it wasn’t laundry day before, it is now.  
_

It was at that moment, buffeted by Simmons’ totally unjust tirade, and wishing he weren’t so polite because he did _not_ fancy the prospect of touchin’ that germy corpse, that he finally glanced in the mirror.

“The _Hell_ did you do to me, woman?!”

The haircut made him look like a child.   _Well, even_ _**more** _ _like a child._  His hair hadn’t been this short since he was four years old and got chewing gum stuck in it.  Without the cascade of curls to distract from his baby face, Fitz’s focus shot like an arrow towards all his worst features: his long, wide nose; his doll-like eyes, blue marbles under savage brows; his cherry-Chapstick mouth and wide, infantile cheeks that turned an embarrassing pink whenever it suited his scumbag brain.  How a haircut managed to make his face look fat _and_ his shoulders look skinny was beyond him, but Simmons had accomplished it.  Fitz groaned as he mentally calculated how long it would take to grow out.   _Better get mum to knit me a hat.  
_

And that wasn’t the worst part.

She’d said -- _she promised_ \-- that if he stayed put and didn’t move, his ears would make it through intact.  Well, Fitz had held up his end of the bargain, right to the minute she’d told him he could move, so what did that say?   _Simmons is a liar._  The rivulet of blood running down the side of his neck was all the proof he needed.   _She cut me like unpaid cable._  He lifted his hand to the side of his head, smelled the pennies, saw the red-to-rust smear on his skin.  Fitz couldn’t quite pinpoint where the nick was, still reeling with the adrenaline of the recent Hitchcockian onslaught.  But where there was blood, pain liked to follow.

Fitz could not believe he’d misjudged Simmons so badly.  She was like a female Pinocchio, stickin’ her ugly nose wherever she pleased -- _and, of course, all the lying._ She was so two-faced she might as well live in Gotham.  But he knew that, or he should’ve after that little Judas moment in the hall, and he’d trusted her anyway.   _It’s my kind nature.  I’m always givin’ people the benefit of the doubt._  He never thought his poor ears would pay the price.

She ran over to him then, almost like she cared, and yanked his hands away in her pesky take-charge style.

“When did _this_ happen?  Did the bird scratch you?”

What in blazes…? _That backstabbin’ shrew._  Was she seriously trying to pin the blame for her Freddy Krueger tendencies on a helpless bird?   _Talk about fowl play._  Fitz was pretty sure there was a thou-shalt-not about defaming dead wildlife _somewhere_ in the Bible.   _Good luck in Hell, then._  As if she’d need it -- knowing Simmons, she’d puzzle out a new sulfur-based endothermic reaction to get rid of the fire _and_ brimstone.  Once Simmons was through, the Underworld would look about as terrifying as a 2-bedroom cottage in Ludlow.

“I’ll give you three guesses,” he sneered, eyes narrowed in disgust.

“Oh, Fitz… I’m so sorry…”  She did seem contrite as the realization of what she’d done sank in.  But Fitz wasn’t falling for the innocent act.   _Fool me once…_  He glared.  “I didn’t mean to-- I must’ve--” she blubbered.

“Must have?”  Fitz couldn’t believe her audacity.  “More like y’ _did_.  What, y’ get me confused with a Schnauzer?  Should I be worried you’re gonna dock my tail next?”

Her expression changed.   _Now the true colors come out._  “Really, Fitz, it’s not that bad… if you’ll let me fetch my first-aid kit, I can--”

“You’re not gettin’ anywhere _near_ me, Edward Scissorhands!”

She rolled her eyes -- _and that is the last sodding straw_ \-- but Fitz headed off whatever ill-bred suggestion she was about to launch at him with a single finger, pointed at her traitorous face.  His other hand went back up, probing gingerly around the sliced cartilage.  Under the blood, he could only assume his ear looked like a certain post-Impressionist painter’s.   _Well, Simmons, if you were hopin’ to keep my ear as a present, y’ can Van Gogh fuck yourself._  He was never falling for Simmons’ guile again.

Fitz grabbed his things and stomped out.  He slammed the door behind him, blocking Simmons out of his life for good.

 

If anyone had looked down the hall at that moment, they would have seen an irate Scottish youth with a large metal briefcase, shaking his fist at a closed door.

“... and _stay_ out!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is short?  I’ve been unable to get on the computer consistently today, and we’ve got some craziness at home, so I’m having to write in tiny fits and starts.  (It’s very disorienting.  Probably not as disorienting as having a bird fly at your head though.)  So I see that it’s short, but it didn’t feel short to me, ‘cause I’ve been trying to finish this all day.  Also, it’s almost completely full of grumpy, sassy Fitz, if you go in for that sort of thing.
> 
> Credit goes to [bigdamhero](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bigdamhero) for the Fitz vs. Birds final score.  Thanks for your help!  *slides over a wad of cash and a plate of fresh-baked madeleines*
> 
> Ludlow is apparently a very quaint English town full of castles and antiquing. I’ve never been, but wanted to reference someplace inoffensive. Hurray for the power of the Internet!
> 
> I may be posting shorter chapters for a spell, if the at-home-craziness continues.  I’ll try to make sure they’re still fun.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who’s been following my stories, and especially y’all who’ve responded with feedback!  I love rev-you-s!  (Heheh.  See what I did there?  You thought I was being sweet, but I was comment-grubbing.) *wink*


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Fitz…!” Simmons called plaintively after the departing hurricane of teen umbrage.

 _I should follow him._  No, that was a bad idea.  Fitz was in a huff, and wouldn’t appreciate her coming after him.   _But he got cut._  He’d need her help to see to it.   _It’s only a minor laceration, no stitches._  Simmons had managed to determine that much before he snatched her hands away and stormed off in a snit.  The expression on his face made her insides flatten and crunch, like a cheap plastic water bottle when you drink too fast.

Surely he could handle Bactine and a Band-Aid on his own.  But what if he didn’t have any medical supplies?  Not everyone excelled at preparation.  Simmons chewed at her bottom lip, distraught.   _I don’t remember slicing his ear…_  Tell that to the scissors in her hand.  The evidence was all there.  A thought flashed into her head that Fitz must have twitched into the blade during the ruckus.  If he hadn’t insisted on opening that damn window…   _You stop that, Jemma Simmons._  It didn’t matter _how_ it happened.  Fitz -- her equal, the best lab partner she'd ever had -- had been hurt, and instead of empathizing, she'd let his flippant retorts get to her.  Now... she blinked, eyelids hot.   _Fitz may never trust you again, and that’s on you._  Her stomach felt like a sticky painter’s sponge, racing to wring itself out before the paint could dry and harden.

 _Oh.  And there's still the rather distressing matter of the bird._  Her sight landed on the body, still lying on the rug.  Simmons supposed she'd better deal with that as soon as possible.  She heaved a ponderous sigh.   _First things first._  Not getting evicted probably should take priority.

Simmons grabbed one of the towels she'd used to catch Fitz's snippets, recalling the whispery softness of those curls as several of them fell around her feet.  What if she never got to… _Dead bird, Jemma._  Right.  She carefully laid the towel over it, scooped it up into a bundle and hefted it into her arms.  Close up, she could easily identify a common grackle, black body and iridescent navy head.   _He's a big one._  Still roiling in the turmoil of recent events, Simmons let a salty tear drop for the fallen creature.  She thought her heart might thump out of her chest from the gamut of emotion -- trepidation, jubilation, consternation, desolation -- she'd been through in the course of just one afternoon.

 _Wait… that's not my heartbeat._  Under the towel, she suddenly felt the pounding and fluttering of strong wings, straining against the prison of cloth and arms.

Simmons let out a sharp yip of laughter as she skipped to the still-open window.  Opening the towel, she watched the bird take flight and soar away, a little cattywampus, but very much alive.   _Well, that ended better than I'd hoped._  It was the one visible frequency of light in her current spectrum of despondency.

Tittering with relief, Simmons cranked the window shut and promised herself she’d have Fitz seal it back tout de suite.   _If he’s ever in my room again._  Simmons forced herself to breathe.  Even against the chilling possibility that her first -- _only_ \-- real friend wanted nothing to do with her, she was sure he’d still show up at the lab.   _I can sort this._ Nothing was ever so bad that it couldn’t be fixed with a nice cuppa and a biscuit.  Sagging onto her mattress, Simmons thought that sounded lovely right about now.

 

* * *

 

Fitz tromped up the stairs to his own dorm, mind ablaze.  He threw open the front door, fumbling slightly as he plunked down his heavy case just inside the room.  Herrick looked up from his relaxed pose on the loveseat, surprise straightening his shoulders.  “You look like crap,” he greeted the rattled engineer.

 _Bloody haircut.  I knew it._  “Simmons,” Fitz grunted in explanation.  “Do we have any alcohol swabs?”

“There’s hydrogen peroxide in the bathroom.  What’s goin’ on?”

Fitz turned his head and gruffly pointed to his ear.

“Shiiiit…” Herrick’s eyebrows rose.  “Want me to clean that up for ya?”

Fitz’s temper had grabbed center stage.  “I can take care of myself,” he barked.  

Herrick put up both palms, placating.  “Never said you couldn’t.  Holler if you need somethin’.”

  
Fitz marched into the toilet and ran the tap, staring at his newly rejuvenated face in the mirror.  He splashed cold water on himself, and succeeded in making things worse, pink running down his neck into his shirt collar.   _And now I look like an angry squirrel caught in the rain._  This was all Simmons’ fault.   _Pffft._  Despite what she might think of him, Fitz wasn’t a child who needed coddling.  He could doctor his own scrapes.   _Fat lot of good her fancy medical trainin’ did, when that bird died._  No, Fitz was nearly a grown man, and he most assuredly did not require help with his boo-boo.

Except the cut seemed to be on the back of his ear.  It would take at least two mirrors to see what he was doing.  “Erm… Herrick?”

“Yeah, buddy.”

“Would you mind…?”

Wordlessly, Herrick came over and swabbed away the blood with a peroxide-soaked cotton ball.  Fitz smelled the remote vinegar scent, heard the fizzle and pop bubbling in his flesh, felt the sting of disinfectant burning through his ear.  He couldn’t see the damage, but his gut said it was bad.  And not Michael Jackson bad, more like live-in-a-clock-tower-and-become-a-vigilante bad.   _Don’t mind me, I’ll just be hidin’ under a bridge with Quasimodo and Darkman._

“This is pretty shallow, man.”

And just what _exactly_ made Herrick think he could question Fitz’s attitude?   _Oh… he meant the cut._  Fitz coughed out a throaty noise, neither agreeing nor disputing.

“So Simmons did this?  She the one who cut your hair?”

 _Arrgh._ “I don’t want to talk about it.  Have you got a hat I can borrow?”   _Or a clown wig?_

Herrick chuckled.  “Seriously?  It’s barely noticeable.  You don’t even need a bandage.”

“Not that,” Fitz grumbled, waving his hand over his head.  “I look like an idiot.”

“The haircut?”  Herrick’s eyes widened.

“Y' mean the _massacre_?”

“Dude, you are kind of an idiot, but it’s got nothin’ to do with your hair, which looks fine.  Quit bein’ a baby and go talk to your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my gi--”  A baby?   _He wouldn’t be sayin’ that if Simmons hadn’t made me look like one._  Fitz kicked himself again for his stupidity in letting her near him.  Whatever Simmons had in store next, he didn’t intend to find out.   _I’m not her bloomin’ Tamagotchi._ “Never mind.  I don’t have time for this.”

Fitz grouchily collected the first aid supplies and hurled them into the bin, relishing the satisfying _plosh_ they made as they hit the metal side and squelched down.

Herrick backed out of the tiny lavatory, shrugging.  “Whatever, man.”

Fitz shoved his way into his bedroom, haphazardly gathering every piece of clothing he owned from his floor into a large drawstring bag.  When he lit on his hand-knit jumpers and scarves, he was slammed with a vague recollection of his mum, washing things in a sink and laying them to dry on racks.  Fitz felt out of his depth.  What was he supposed to do?   _Somethin’ about lanolizing wool?_  Mum had never hung them up or tumbled them in the machine.  Fitz had no idea how to take care of these particular garments -- _Do I look like a goddamn chambermaid?_ \-- but he did know that mum would never forgive him if he ruined them with carelessness.  He separated out a small nostalgic pile, determined to Google it later and give those items their due.  Rugged and manly he might be, but Fitz would look up instructions when it was important.

Finally, he pulled off his bird-splattered button-up and added it to the top of the mound, grateful for the (somewhat) clean T-shirt underneath.  Lugging the massive bag through the kitchenette, he grabbed a candy bar and pummeled it into his mouth.

“Whersalaun’ryroom?” he garbled, around bites of chocolate and nougat.

“What?!”  Herrick saw his laundry sack.  “Oh.  Basement level.”

Fitz nodded and heaved his burden over his shoulder, like a spindly Scottish Santa, staggering to the front door.

“Fitz!”  He turned to see Herrick toss a small, hard cylinder at him.  Thankfully, the roll of quarters chunked into the pile of clothes across his back, and not into his slight frame.  He pocketed the change, mumbled out a thanks, and headed downstairs to prove to the world that Leo Fitz was an adult.

 

It was two hours later, when Fitz pulled his entire wardrobe from the dryer, that he discovered his clothes were ruined.  Some had shrunk, others stretched, still others had holes worn through or large, whitish stains.   _Guess maybe I should’ve asked for help._  Fitz shook his head, slowly at first, then frantically, taking in this fresh catastrophe.   _It’s too much._  It had been stacking up all day, a spinal column of unstable blocks, and the tower had just come crashing to the ground.  He saw each block as it hurtled through the air -- Jonesy, stirring up his self-doubt; Simmons, complaining to her _parents_ about him -- _who survives a first impression like that?_ \-- and the dawning shock of his reflection in the mirror.  Adding insult to quite literal injury, he’d been made to suffer through the Birdpocalypse, only to get the brunt of Simmons’ wrath, yelling at him and rolling her eyes.  The blocks clattered down around him.

  
Trembling with the knowledge that he’d have to wear small trousers, blotchy shirts and dirty sweaters -- ‘ _cause no way am I washing mum’s jumpers_ _ **now**_ \-- for the rest of the semester, Fitz sat hard on the cold linoleum floor.  He couldn’t deal with the reality of it all.   _I don’t feel like a grown-up._  He felt exactly as he looked -- young, scared, and sad.  This wasn’t the worst day of Fitz’s life, not by a mile, but it was still a reminder.  Fitz sank into a corner in the laundry room, curled himself up like a doodlebug, and trusted the roar of the washing machines to hide him as he sobbed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noooo… Fitzy… I still love you, don’t cry!  
> Ugh.  Just typing about Fitz crying is enough to wrench my heart.  Hopefully yours as well.  
> Our poor kids are sure havin’ a hard day.  Hey, at least the bird was all right!  
> Cattywampus is one of my favorite words in the English language.  Along with defenestration.  
> Folks, take care of your wool garments.  That’s not a joke.
> 
> This chapter made me sad.  But comments make me happy!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Simmons hunted through her room for the source of the pretty song.  Getting onto her hands and knees, she reached under the chest of drawers and felt the hard plastic rectangle of Fitz’s phone, just as the sound stopped.  She checked the screen.  Three missed calls.  Since she’d met him, Simmons had never once seen Fitz ignore a call from his mum.   _She’ll think he’s been murdered!_  As she debated what to do, the music started back up, and after a moment’s deliberation, Simmons pressed the green button.

  
“Fitz’s phone.”

“Hello?  Who’s this?”

“His friend, Jemma.”   _If I can still call myself that._  “Hi, Mrs. Fitz.”

“Och, ye can call me Lorna, dear.  Where’s me boy, then?”

“He’s not here; he just forgot his phone in my room.  But I can get it back to him.”

“Well, I’ll be… Leo didna tell me he’d hooked ‘imself a lass!”

“Oh, I’m not-- we’re not--  we’re just friends…”  She tried not to sound flustered.

“An’ he’s leavin’ his things in yer bedroom?”  The teasing note in Mrs. Fitz’s voice was so similar to her son’s that Simmons had a jolt of déjà vu.

“Oh, that was--” she babbled, discomposed, “--just a silly accident. I’ll make sure to, er, return the phone.”

“Could ye?  We were s’posed ta have a chat.”

“Of course!”  She guessed she ought to hang up now, but Mrs. Fitz intercepted.

“Ye wouldna be that Simmons girl he’s been goin’ on aboot, now would ye?”

 _He’s talked about me?_  “Erm-- yes, I suppose that’s me.”

“That's great, then. Leo's said some awfy good things.”

 _Good things?_  Simmons wasn’t sure if Mrs. Fitz was teasing again.  “Really?”

“Aye, that he has.  He spoke ta me a week ago, he said, ‘Me new lab partner’s gey bossy, mum.  Ye’d like her.’  And tha’s when I knew he’d found a friend.”

 _There’s a compliment in there somewhere, I’m sure of it._  Mrs. Fitz continued like she’d read Simmons’ mind.

“My Leo’s aye been a wee bit prickly… I used ta tell ‘im Scotland didna hae the climes ta grow a cactus, and I reckon he grew up crabbit jus’ ta prove me wrong.  But Jemma, hen, ye hae ta look past his words ta the heart o’ them.  He’s happier this week than he’s been since he left for the States.”

Simmons blushed magenta, grateful for the invisibility of telephone communication.  “Glad I could help.”  She felt she needed to offer something more.  “He’s a remarkable person.”

“Och, bless your cotton socks, love.  I’ll let ya go, then, back ta yer important life an’ all, but I jus’ meant ta say, I’m pleased as punch me wee lad's got someone there wi’ him who cares.”

“I’ll let him know you called.  Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fi-- Lorna.”  

 _Click_.  Almost immediately, Simmons felt ridiculous.   _Nice to meet you?  Ugh._  That wasn’t a proper meeting -- and had she accidentally hung up on Fitz’s mum?   _Oh, God, I should’ve let her say goodbye._  This was just like when the box office attendant said, “Enjoy your film!” and Simmons chirped back, “You too!”   _Every single time._

Simmons forced herself to relax, thinking of the sweet words Mrs. Fitz had said during the call.  Fitz considered her a friend.   _Or at least a shouty lab monitor._  He’d spoken to his mum about her.  She had helped to make him happy -- that last one made her toes wiggle and a quick smile hide behind her teeth.

Whatever she and Fitz were now, Simmons knew there was a great deal riding on this conversation.  Would he forgive her for the nick to his ear?   _What can I possibly say besides ‘I’m sorry’?_  He’d seemed upset about more than that.  Was he being pranked again?  Was he angry at the world?  Simmons didn’t want to jump to conclusions.  But she did need to see Fitz, if only to return his phone, and it wouldn’t do to go in unprepared.  She pulled out a fresh pack of index cards and a turquoise gel pen, Googled “inspirational words for overcoming adversity,” and did what she did best:  Simmons planned her next move.

 

* * *

 

Fitz looked up, sniffling, and saw his face mirrored in the dark glass of the front-loading dryer door.  His brain knew that his eyes were puffy red and his nose was rubbed raw, but in the grayscale reflection, none of that showed.  In this light, even his haircut didn’t look quite as bad.  In fact… he was teleported to the image of a different Fitz, a wedding portrait from years ago.  It was enough to set off a fresh wave of tears.

Between the watery swish and the _thump-hum-thump_ of the machines, caroming off the wracking sobs from his own throat, Fitz didn’t hear the footsteps until they were too close to avoid.

 _Well that’s just great._  The instant this newcomer noticed him, he’d have some cadet spreading stories about the crybaby in the laundry room.  He buried his face further into his knees, hoping at least to avoid being identified.  No one would know it was him from the back of his head, not with his new bad-boy slash wound and shorter hair.   _So that’s lucky._  He supposed he owed Simmons a thanks for mutilating him past recognition.  For a second he imagined it _was_ Simmons, come to find him, and his heart lifted before he reminded himself: _We’re meant to be staying away from that traitorous harlot._  Not that it mattered much, if she decided to track him down.

 

The loud, obnoxious cackle that rang out definitely wasn’t Simmons.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late!  I have excuses, but I won’t make them, because nobody likes excuses.  
> It occurred to me that it might’ve seemed like I let the bird live at the last minute in order to “happy up” the last chapter.  I just wanted to let y’all know, he was never dead.  They just thought he was.
> 
> Now, about this chapter -- thanks to [starbrightnights](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starbrightnights) for inspiring me to include a moment between Simmons and Fitz’s mom, and for her help with British slang.  
> Massive thanks to my Scottish-lingo consultants, [McMerlark](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/3652602/McMerlark) and [thisisyourcaptainwriting](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/3627559/thisisyourcaptainwriting) over on FF for helping me with Mrs. Fitz’s dialogue.
> 
> Regarding the “Scottish” bits:  I do know it’s supposed to be “tae” for “to” (not “ta”) but I just couldn’t do it.  It looked strange to me, so I compromised.  Also, “hae” is “have” though that one’s easy to guess.  And “aye” is both “yes” (which I knew) and “always” (which I did not know).  Oh, language.  You so crazy.  
> Also, awfy = awfully; gey = very; crabbit = bad-tempered; hen = hen, but it’s a term of affection.
> 
> Next chapter will be up tomorrow without fail!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
> 
> To clarify ahead of time, a wife-beater is an sleeveless undershirt / tank top.

“Duuuuude!  Dass whum talkin’ about!”

Fitz yanked his head up to see Jonesy, oblivious to his presence, crowing over the pile of ruined clothes.  “Uhhnng!”  Jonesy made knife-hands and popped them on either side of his groin in an emphatic air-hump.  Fitz scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, trying to make out like he _hadn’t_ just finished a marathon cry.

 _Is he off his rocker?_  Who was Jonesy performing for?  He seemed proud of himself.  Realization dug its razor nails into Fitz’s brainstem.   _That arsehole did somethin’ to the laundry!_  Fitz got to his feet in a rabid scramble, fury replacing the plasma in his veins.

“Jonesy!” he hissed, channeling everything he’d been through that day into those two syllables.

The douchenozzle turned, seeing Fitz for the first time.  “Ho-hooo…!” he chortled, bracing a hand on his thigh as he fought for air.  “ _Leopold?!_  Awwhhh, this is so boss!” he wheezed, wetness streaking from a corner of his eye, guffaws stealing his oxygen.  “Ep-- epic b-- buurrrrn!” he gasped around chuckles, face like a fire truck.

“Jonesy, look at me.”  Fitz’s voice was arctic.  “Did.  You.  Ruin.  My.  Clothes?”

“Bro, your face!”  Jonesy was still swimming through his laughter.  “You gotta see your face!”

“Jonesy!   _What the HELL?!_ ”  Fitz hauled up the half-full sack of laundry like a punching bag, and flung it at that wienerclown’s stupid head. Underwhelmingly, Jonesy swatted it away, easy as a horse’s tail flicks a mosquito.   _Horse’s tail is puttin’ it much too nicely._  “Those were all my clothes for the term, you dick!”  Fitz launched himself at the other man, spitting mad and spoiling for a fight.

It was even less satisfying than chucking the bag had been.  Jonesy put his hand on Fitz’s forehead and held him at arm’s length while Fitz swung wildly, desperate to pummel anything he could reach.

Jonesy continued to taunt, throwing out strange interjections.  “Yeah, biatch!  Own that shit!  Let it out, Blue Power Ranger!  Good stuff!  Hollaaaah!”

After a couple of minutes, Fitz had done exactly that.  Gotten it out of his system, to be precise.  He jerked away from the older cadet, panting and scowling.  “Is this why you told me to wash my clothes this mornin’?” he asked, out of breath, but reverting from crimson to peach.

“Dawg, you _did_ need to wash your clothes.  Your room was stinkin’ like the back of my taint at the gym.  But yeah, me n’ my homeboy rigged a few of the machines to screw with the freshmen.”

“Herrick?”  Fitz felt his fists clench, remembering how his roommate had given him the coins.

“Nah, son.  Herrick’s been a real pain in my ass lately ‘bout pullin’ pranks.  Whassat about, anyways?”

“I don’t know,” Fitz replied stiffly.  “Maybe he thinks it’s destructive and immature.”   _That was all because of Simmons._  She’d made Herrick see sense, and Fitz was suddenly very glad for Simmons’ willingness to ignore social boundaries.  He also thanked his lucky stars that he’d ended up with Herrick as a roommate.   _Anyone but this cockbasket._

“Dude, don’t be a wuss.  Pranks are the tits.  Besides,” he grabbed a pullover out of Fitz’s pile and threw it at his face, “thizza hot mess; your laundry was ruined before you ever put it in.”  Jonesy swept his arm at the various bottles and boxes -- _they’re just washing powder, right?_ \-- on the shelf above the machine.  “Seriously, bro?  Whadya do, pour on summa everything?  A coupla these’re for cleaning carpet, jeez!”  Jonesy pulled the wraparound sunglasses off their perch atop his frosted tips and tucked them into the neck of his shirt.

“And who told you to put all your clothes in the same load, dumbass?”

“How else _should_ I wash them?” Fitz asked defensively, but legitimately curious.

“Are you shitting me right now?!”  Jonesy pawed over his crew cut as his piggy eyes tightened in disbelief.  “Oh, naw, naw, naw… you _got_ to take care of your threads, brocef!  Separate lights and darks!  Jeans and delicates!  You leave a red sock in with your whites, you gon’ end up with a buncha pink wifebeaters!   _That_ what you want?”

Fitz shook his head mutely, eyes getting rounder with every word.

“No way, playah.  Ain’t no hotties gonna blow you wearin’ pink.”  He flicked the collar on his pink-and-navy striped polo shirt and aimed finger-guns at Fitz.  “Unless you’re _rockin’_ it.”

Jonesy reached into the pocket of his cargo shorts -- _don’t flinch_ \-- and pulled out two Red Bulls.  He tossed one to Fitz, who ducked, and the can thunked into the side of a dryer.  “We’ll work on your reflexes later.  Pick that up.  Shit’s expensive.”

Fitz moved to comply, warily keeping his eyes on Jonesy at all times.

“I’ve been watchin’ ya, Fitzy, and you’re havin’ a bitch of a time makin’ friends.  Can’t fit in?  Get made fun of a lot.  School sucks, am I right, lil’ homie?”

 _He did not just--_ “Goddamnit, Jonesy!  You’re the reason--” Fitz spluttered before Jonesy cut him off, waving his hands in a dismissive gesture.

“Listen, we could play the blame game all day, but in the end… who’s to blame, really?”

Fitz was so addled he couldn’t even swear.

“I know I been hard on ya, kid, but it’s for your own good.”  Jonesy chuckled, and Fitz could’ve sworn it was due to saying the phrase _hard on_ .  “I used to be like you.  OK, nah, I was never an Urkel-lookin’ little punk, but the straight dope is, I didn’t _always_ ride like a baller and get hot bitties right and left.  ‘Fore I got my swag, I was a freshman, just like you.”

Fitz set his mouth in a line.   _Is this just a veiled excuse to make fun of me?_

“But I was lucky, too. There was this senior, Sensei Rob?  Used to bust my ass every day.  He was so rad.  Always some foine shawty on his arm, he could do karate, and he had sick hair.  And he pranked me allatime, hella tight pranks that he worked on for days.”  Jonesy leaned forward and gave Fitz a somber look, which only emphasized his ape-like brow.  “And I needed it, Fitzy, just like you do.  I needed it… to stop being a pussy.”  His eyes said _this is important_ , even as his word choice said _punch me_.  “So I could unleash my inner bro.”

 _But I don’t want to unleash my inner bro.  My inner bro is perfectly happy not existing ever._  Fitz wished he could leave.  The laundry room door was sitting open, but with Jonesy mammothing in front of it, he was effectively trapped.

“You know how they fix a broken bone when it’s all screwed up?  They break it all over again.  Cuz it’s _weak_.  They break it to make it strong.  That’s what Sensei Rob was doin’ by messing with me; that’s what I’m doin’ to all these noob fish.  We’re tearin’ up some bones, yo.”

Fitz could’ve taken him a tad more seriously if Jonesy hadn’t kept snickering at the word _bone_.  

“Point is, you gotta toughen up.  But today’s your lucky day, cuz I’ve decided to take pity on ya.  So drink your energy shot, and find a bunker, cuz I’m ‘bout to drop some wisdom bombs.  And when I’m done?”  Jonesy grabbed a baseball cap out of his rear pocket and pulled it on backwards, “You’re gonna have the secret to an awesome life.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [amandajbruce](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/1852741/amandajbruce) on FF for inspiring me towards laundry machine shenanigans.
> 
> Thanks to my college experience and my brothers-in-law’s friends for giving me the tools to portray Jonesy.  Tools being the operative word.
> 
> I would offer translations for the bro-speak, but there’s way too much to say here.  So please send me a private message if you’re confused.  The short version is that Jonesy feels justified in pranking freshmen because he thinks he’s breaking them down so they can build themselves back up even better than before.
> 
> There are probably a number of Sensei Robs in the world, but I assure you, any resemblance is accidental.
> 
> That speech about the bones is loosely based off something Dr. Torres says in Grey’s Anatomy.  I can’t actually remember what she said, but it was along those lines.
> 
> So what do you think of Jonesy?  Is he growin’ on ya?


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Simmons held onto her cue cards as she waited for the elevator.  The entire two-block walk to Fitz’s dorm had been consumed in a flurry of rehearsal and nerves.  Her speech was short, and rather cliché, but it might suit.  She crossed her fingers that Fitz’d had a chance to decompress in the hours since she’d seen him.  This would go much better if he was calm.

She hoped returning his phone would be enough to get her back into Fitz’s good graces.  They had less than a week of work left on the drones, and despite their discussion of continuing together in the lab, it would be easy for Fitz to change his mind in a fit of pique.  But she would miss him.  She’d miss the impish way he smuggled crackers to the monkeys -- _I’ll tell him off if he tries to give them something_ _ **really**_ _bad_ \-- and how his face animated when he thought no one was looking, like his brain was a movie marathon and the pause button was on the fritz.   _God, I might even miss the infernal crinkling of those crisps._

When the lift dinged to signal the basement, Simmons shook out her arms to work through some of the tension.  Phone gripped tight in one hand, notes in the other, she made her way to the laundry room.  She was more than a little surprised to see a triceratops of a man blocking the door, his back to her, giant ham-hock rib cage and blonde bowling-ball head obscuring the view.  However, she had no trouble hearing Fitz’s high-pitched stutter of rage.

“Goddamnit, Jonesy!  You’re the reason--”

“Listen, we could play the blame game all day…”

  
Simmons stood in the hall, lips parted first in indecision, then in curiosity, as she listened to Jonesy tell the story of Sensei Rob and his brolier-than-thou attitude.  Jonesy was truly ridiculous.   _How is he even at this school?_  Even for Ops, Simmons had been under the impression that the Academy was a place for reasonable, competent adults.   _His hand-eye coordination must be something for the Guinness Book._  Then again, thinking back on some of the dimwitted stunts Kibbles and Bits had pulled, it occurred to her that the Office of Admissions probably just needed stricter oversight.

When Jonesy got to the bone-shattering metaphor, however, Simmons sighed and crumpled her index card that read ‘When you hit rock bottom, there’s no place to go but up.’   _He’s stolen my thunder there, a bit._

 

“And when I’m done?  You’re gonna have the secret to an awesome life,”  Jonesy chugged in some air and shifted into what she presumed was a motivational-speaker stance.

“Aight, Leopold, these are my patented keys to success.   You can’t tell anyone what you learned here today, you feel me?  Okay.”  Jonesy gathered himself with a pause.  “You know that song, Livin’ La Vida Loca?”

“No…”  Poor Fitz, his distress was palpable though he remained out of her line of sight.

“Well these are the Rules for Livin’ La Vida Bro-ca, and you’re gonna wanna get a pen.”

She sincerely doubted Fitz was going to write anything down.   _Not that he’d need to; his memory’s incredible._

“Rule #1: Make millions; bang tens.”  Simmons squinched her face into a moue of revulsion at the phrasing, but eliminated another index card: ‘Follow your dreams.’   _Damn._

“Course, you can’t do that with your pasty ass walkin’ around like a short Macaulay Culkin, but a couple rounds of GTL’ll set ya square.”

“I can’t believe I’m askin’ this…” she heard Fitz inquire, “but what’s GTL?”

“What’s GTL?  Gym - Tan - Laundry, bro!  Only way to live!  Urrgh!  Come _on!_ ”  Jonesy sounded genuinely annoyed for the first time.  “Get your head in the game.”

Fitz muttered out an apology, and Simmons’ gut fluttered in alarm.   _Don’t fall for it, Fitz!  He’s insane!_

“Okay, so like I said, you’re not gonna be bangin’ tens, but you could prolly land two fives, easy.”  There was a wet, whuffly pause as Jonesy swigged from his energy drink.  “Next rule: When life gets hard?  That means you just leveled up.  Hell yeah!  Pound it out!”

Jonesy’s arm lifted in what Simmons could only assume was a fist bump, but couldn’t see whether Fitz returned the enthusiasm.  She preferred to imagine he didn’t.  Shaking her head, she shredded another card: ‘What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.’   _At this rate I’ll have nothing left to say._

Jonesy’s booming voice crashed through her thoughts.  “Rule #3:  If you fall in a race, pants the guy in front of you.  Cuz that shit’s hilarious.  Word.”

Simmons blinked in surprise.  Her dwindling pile of notecards stayed intact.

“And the last one, and I’m not playin’ around here,” Jonesy sounded cold sober, “Life’s a bitch.  Make it _your_ bitch.  Unnghh!”  Simmons rolled her eyes at the accompanying hip thrust.  Quietly, she crumpled one more card: ‘When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.’   _Well, that was a waste of two hours._  She opened her mouth, ready to alert the guys to her presence.

“You hear what I said, Fitzy?  Whatcha gonna do to life, huh buddy?”

“Erm… make it my bitch?”  Fitz had never sounded so uncomfortable cursing.

“What’s that?  I can’t hear you!”  Jonesy sounded like a drill sergeant.

“Make it _my BITCH!_ ”  Fitz yelled out, almost as if he were inspired by this nonsense.  Simmons’ eyebrows lifted.

“Noice!  Let’s hug it out.”  She saw Jonesy’s girth shuffle forward like a mastodon and to her amazement, Fitz’s pale arms come around to slap him loudly on the back.  The large cadet hoisted Fitz up off the ground and set him down with a _plonk_ , like a child, and she could see Fitz’s body angling out to the side, trying to avoid a headlock while Jonesy ruffled at his hair.  “Yo, this new do’s pretty fly, lil’ G.  No homo.”  He grunted in farewell.  “I gotsta bounce.  Smell ya later!”

With one last meaty, apparently friendly swipe at Fitz’s arm, Jonesy whirled around and spotted Simmons just beyond the door.

“Eeeeyyy… Spunky!  Lookin’ good.”  He gave her an appraising nod, a crooked smile, and made a wet _chtt_ noise in the side of one cheek, before pushing his way past into the hall.

 

Simmons and Fitz were left standing a few yards apart, staring like mannequins.

Fitz broke the silence first.  “How long-- you weren’t meant to-- that stuff abou-- I was just playin’ along...”

Simmons giggled, totally flummoxed in the wake of Jonesy’s Tasmanian-devil intensity.  “No, it’s all right!”  She looked at her hands.  She had one card left -- an Albert Einstein quote: ‘Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving.’   _Sod it.  Let’s keep moving._  She shoved the card into her pocket and held out the Nokia instead.  “You left this in my room.  I think it fell out of your pocket during all the hubbub.”

“Ah, thanks!  I was wondering why mum hadn’t rung.  She’ll be worried, I’d better--”

“It’s okay,” she rushed to reassure him, “I spoke to her and explained the situation.”

“You… and mum…”  Fitz blanched, but Simmons had just seen the mountain of ruined clothes.

“Oh, Fitz, what happened?!”  She sprinted over and began picking through the garments.

“Ehh… I’m bad at laundry?”  The question of whether to say more was playing out over his face.  “… and Jonesy monkeyed with the machine.”

“That _wanker!_  Do you want to get him back?”  Simmons wasn’t vengeful, but after the way Fitz had stormed out on her that afternoon, she didn’t think a chance to bond would go amiss.

A devilish smile swept across her mouth.  “Just tell me how I can help.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got some of Jonesy’s “wisdom” from the Courage Wolf meme, so I don’t know how to thank a meme, but there you have it. Thanks, meme.  
> G-T-L is a life motto on Jersey Shore. Best I don’t say too much about that.
> 
> Reviews are more bodacious than a tasty wave, bro. Hang ten!  
> (Sorry. I’ll get Jonesy out of my system eventually, I promise.)


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

 _Simmons._  She was here.  In the laundry room.  A few seconds after he’d just screamed the word _bitch_ at the top of his lungs.   _Oh, brother._

And then she was all _tee hee_ , and thrusting his phone at him, and she’d talked to his mum--   _Wait, what?!_

“You… and mum…”   _Gulp._  Mum wasn’t exactly shy, and Simmons… _I don’t even want to_ _ **think**_ _about all the wrong ways that probably went._  Fitz felt a spark of irritation kindle low in his belly.  What the Hell was Simmons’ obsession with his phone?  First she’d programmed herself into it -- _note to self: check for spyware_ \-- and now she was buttering up his mum?   _You keep your grubby mitts off, missy._  Simmons’d probably filched the mobile in the midst of all the brouhaha, just so she could tattle on him about the stupid bird.   _That double-crossin’ hussy._   _Ugh._  His mum would be teasing him about this for weeks.

And now she was going on about pranking Jonesy, mouth stretched wide like a Batman villain.  “Just tell me how I can help.  Ooh!  We could use the drones!”  She had that look on her face that meant she was getting carried away with ideas.   _She’s takin’ over everything!_  At this rate, Simmons would make SHIELD promote her to Head Meddler by year’s end, and if that wasn’t a real title, she’d engrave the plaque herself.   _Points for enthusiasm, I’ll give her that._

It wasn’t that Fitz didn’t appreciate her help.  But _if_ they were going to prank Jonesy -- and he still wasn’t sure that was the best way to deal with the Ops cadet -- Fitz needed to be the man in charge.   _My bully, my business._  Another thought flitted through his brain.   _And maybe, if I let Jonesy toughen me up a bit, Simmons’ll stop treatin’ me like a babe in diapers._  He still hadn’t forgiven her that “little brother” comment.  Even if she _was_ just trying to look out for him, knowing that she thought of him that way chafed at Fitz’s pride.   _I never asked her to fight my battles_.  Well, perhaps if Simmons saw that someone else was taking an interest in his life, she’d back off on the micro-management.   _And I s’pose I could benefit from a few rounds of GTL._

“Maybe…”  A scheme was beginning to form.

 

* * *

 

Simmons was excited about this prank now.   _That div has it coming for sure._  “Just tell me how I can help.”  Her mind was already whirling.  “Ooh!  We could use the drones!” she offered.

“Maybe…” Fitz seemed perplexed, “Though I actually don’t hate him so much anymore.”

She let her skepticism show in her expression.   _Whyever_ _ **not**_ _?_  The only positive thing about that lumbering dolt would be his drug test results.  

“He gave me some good advice about washin’ my clothes -- well, what I’ve got left, now -- and I think he might be willin’ to help me out with a few other things.”

Good advice, really?   _How about ‘Hey Fitz,_ _ **don’t**_ _wash your clothes, I’ve mucked with the machines.’_  That might’ve been some good advice.   _Deceitful knob._

“I’ll have to think on that revenge prank.  Workshop a bit; make sure it’s one for the history books.  Can’t put my name to anythin’ else, y’know.”

“Well, technically it would be both our names,” she reminded him.

“Ah, yes.  The great Fitz-Simmons prank of 2005.”

“Hmm…” she smirked.  “I think it should be the Simmons-Fitz prank; it was my idea, after all.”

Fitz angled his head, squinting like he couldn’t tell if she was serious.  “That’s not even-- let’s-- we should keep it alphabetical.  Just makes sense, yeah?”  He clearly thought this argument was sufficient to change her mind.  It was adorable.

“If you say so…” she singsonged.   _We’ll discuss this later._

“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure I want Jonesy knowin’ it was us who pranked him.  Not until we’re behind a few feet of bulletproof glass, anyway.”

Simmons chuckled her acquiescence, letting the subject drop.  She was a little surprised Fitz hadn’t already phoned every exotic pet shop in a 10-km radius to find a rattlesnake for Jonesy’s bed -- _It’s almost magnanimous of him to wait._  But if Fitz was afraid, or wanted to postpone things until he’d worked through some of his issues with that gun-toting wildebeest, Simmons could understand.

Together, they continued to organize Fitz’s clothing, looking for anything that wasn’t too far gone.  Most of the underpants were still usable, since their appearance didn’t matter -- though she chuckled at his expression when she unearthed them (and at the Spiderman print).  Of the lot, there wasn’t much to be salvaged: a handful of socks, some undershirts, one button-up and a hoodie.  She sighed.

“Hey, how’d you know I was here, anyway?”  Fitz surveyed the triage.

“Herrick.”  He nodded mutely as they stood elbow-to-elbow, folding.  The comfortable silence was interrupted only when the air-conditioning started up, rumbling through the vents.

“I’m sorry about your ear.”  She reached over and tentatively brushed a thumb over the cut.  “It looks better.”

“Yeah, ‘s not so bad.”  Fitz mumbled, combing his fingers across the nape of his neck.

“And at least your hair looks nice.”  She bundled up one of the few pairs of unscathed socks.

“Does it?”  Fitz’s face jerked up, insecurity and hope warring on his brow.

“Oh, yes!”  She was overselling, but he needed the boost.  “You’re like a young Colin Firth.”

Fitz turned bright red, but the color vanished a few seconds later, when he cocked his head searchingly.  “Do y’ hear that?”

Simmons listened hard, discerning only the normal laundromat noises.  “No, why?  What is it?”

“It’s like a beep… beep… you don’t hear that?”

“Could it be the smoke alarm?”  A shiver started to scuttle up Simmons’s legs.  They were underground.   _Not the best place to be if a fire breaks out._

“It’s more like a car beeping… almost like someone’s…” he grinned and waggled his eyebrows, “tooting their own horn.”

“Oh, you utter berk!”  She swatted him with a crew-neck tee, inwardly tickled at seeing this playful side to Fitz.

His smile exonerated him.  It changed everything about Fitz when he smiled, chasing away the cobwebs, like that fairytale moment when the hero frees the ensorcelled town.  After about a minute, though, he averted his eyes, picking at a scar on his arm.

“I’m, er, sorry about your bird.  I never intended to kill it.”

“No, don’t worry, you didn’t!”  Simmons beamed as she told the story, and at the end Fitz met her gaze again, mischief cavorting across his lips.

“And here you nearly tore my head off thinkin’ that raven was…” Fitz quirked an eyebrow.  “nevermore…”

Simmons rolled her eyes, failing to contain an amused groan.  “It was a grackle, and did _you_ just make a poetry joke?  Actually, strange things have been happening all day.  Should I buy a lottery ticket?”

He put a hand to his heart in mock offense.  “Rude.  I’ll have you know, I didn’t sleep through _all_ my English classes.”

“No, I’m sure you did plenty besides sleep: bunked off school, built robots, ate crisps like they were going out of fashion…”

“Shush, you.”  Firmly tongue-in-cheek, Fitz threw a sock-ball at her chin.

“Hey!”  Simmons grabbed a destroyed sweatshirt and boomeranged the sleeve, flicking at the soft part of his torso and snatching it back.

“Ow!  That really hurt!”

Except she could see that it didn’t, because Fitz was already making a mess, chucking everything he could get his hands on at her in a full-out laundry war.  A pair of polka-dotted boxers smacked her square in the face and stayed, hooked on her nose.  She pulled them away with an arched brow, reveling in Fitz’s horrified flush.

“Now you’ve done it.”  Simmons warned with a dangerous glint.  “Defend yourself!”  She wadded up a bleach-stained pair of jeans and lobbed them straight and true, nailing him in the hip as he weaved evasively across the linoleum.

Simmons bobbed behind the table in the middle of the room, grabbing garments when he volleyed them her way, returning the makeshift projectiles with equal vigor.

Fitz was jumping around, crazy as a jackanape, whooping out rallying cries as he scooped items off the floor and hurled them back at Simmons.  “Pòg mo thòn!  Lok'tar ogar!”

It was simply good fortune that no one came in during the kerfuffle, or the intruder probably would’ve slipped on a zipper and broken his coccyx.  As it was, once their arms tired of throwing and their lungs tired of laughing, the room looked like the aftermath of a tornado.

“Och, well, most of this was bound for the garbage bin anyway,” exhaled Fitz as he bent to start cleaning up the battlefield.  Simmons heaved herself onto her feet from where she’d slid against the wall, breathless.  She held open the drawstring bag while Fitz tossed in the little they’d been able to rescue, then gathered up an armful of trashed clothes to leave in the dumpster at the end of the hall.  Between them, it only took two trips to get the place neat.

“Should we put up a sign warning people off the machines?” Simmons mused.  The dryers seemed fine, but the washer had been responsible for the tears and holes in Fitz’s apparel.  “I’d hate for anyone else to fall victim to this.”

“Jonesy or his accomplice’ll probably just…” Fitz seemed distracted, “take it down, but… sure, couldn’t hurt.”  He stood among the top-loaders, scratching his head with both hands.  “It’s a simple enough mechanism, Simmons.  I bet I could get these workin’ again tonight.  And I doubt Jonesy’d catch on for at least a few days.”

 _Jonesy hasn’t caught on that his head and his arse have switched places yet._  And he didn’t live in the building, so the chances that he’d miss Fitz’s repairs were fairly good.  With a jolt, she realized Jonesy was coming over purportedly to visit Herrick, but taking advantage of his access to the building to prank the freshmen inside their own dorm.   _The treacherous scum._  Whoever helped him had to be from Sci-Tech; there was no way an Ops cadet could have executed this.

Fitz was clanging open the metal lids of the machines as he peered inside.  “Yep, it’s just as I thought -- it looks like they’ve really only fiddled with the, erm--”

“Agitator?”

“Right, this bit in the middle.”  He grinned sheepishly, “I don’t have to know the name as long as I can fix it, right?”

“I’m more impressed by how you think you can reverse everything so easily.”

He hummed out an indifferent noise, as if he dismantled three washing machines every day.   _Well if we ever do prank anyone,_ _ **we’re**_ _making it so people can’t just erase our hard work in an afternoon._

Fitz started muttering out loud, rolling through the details in his head, rambling on about which tools he had upstairs, gesticulating at an invisible audience.  At the sight of him so invested in the pro bono patch-up, Simmons was blown away by Fitz’s eagerness to do something so, well…   _nice_.

“Fitz…”

He met her gaze, hands propped against the small of his back.

“Nothing,” she chickened out.   _No, why shouldn’t I give him a compliment?  It’s true enough._  Simmons found her voice.  “Only… you’re very kind to think of the other freshmen.”

Fitz shrugged.  “I like playing with machines.  And this way I get to keep all the hardware Jonesy and his flunky put into this.”  He checked inside the washer again, taking stock.  “It’s not kindness, so much as a scavengin’ mission.”  Fitz glowed with excitement at the prospect of his engineering plunder.

 _Deny all you want._  Simmons remembered Mrs. Fitz’s counsel, to look beyond her son’s words to the meaning behind them.   _Fitz is a sweetheart._  Nothing would convince her otherwise.

Also, he proved her right about three seconds later.

“And, well.”  His ears went hot as he contemplated her, a lopsided smile twinkling at his eyes.  “Some freshmen aren’t so bad…”  Now it was Simmons’ turn to blush.  “We newbies have to stick together, yeah?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long one!  Whew.  Hope y’all liked it.
> 
> Thanks to starbrightnights for the help with Britishy words.
> 
> “Pòg mo thòn!” is Scottish Gaelic for “kiss my ass” and “Lok'tar ogar!” is from the online game World of Warcraft, it’s orcish for “Victory or death!”  It’s a small (and predictable) part of my head canon that Fitz plays video games and reads comic books.  Because, y’know, he’s a teenage boy with no friends who burns easily in the sun.
> 
> As you can see, I’ve now put a year to this fic: 2005, sometime in September - October.  It’s been in my head since the start, and I’ve tried to avoid anachronisms (for instance it was really hard for me to have Fitz unaware of Iron Man yet).  I know there are a few times where I’ve slipped up, and I’m OK with that.
> 
> Also, don’t worry too much about Jonesy’s influence… I doubt Fitz’ll buy into it.  Or, will he…


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
> 
> A vest top is, as I understand it, the British term for a tank top / undershirt.

 

Fitz was hungry.  And tired.  His skin hurt.  He was officially out of clothes now.  And to make matters worse, he’d hardly seen Simmons in the last three days.  An eensy-weensy part of that was his own fault -- _I have my own life; Simmons isn’t my bloody keeper after all_ \-- but after he’d told her, very sensibly and with regret, that he had plans on Sunday and couldn’t see her, she’d been strange.  Getting off the phone like that, quick as you please, then barely talking to him during Solomon’s class the next morning… it was -- Fitz hated to criticize, but -- immature.   _And she thinks_ _ **I’m**_ _a child._

The kicker was that she’d cancelled their usual Monday night lab session, citing a mysterious “work conflict.”  Did she think he was a moron?  She didn’t have a paying job.   _She’s clearly just trying to get back at me for blowing her off._ Which Fitz hadn’t even done. There was no rule that said they had to spend every day together.  Did she expect him to follow her around like a lap dog?   _Grow up, Simmons._

  
And now that they were -- _finally!_ \-- going to get dinner and spend some time in the lab, she was half an hour late.   _Vindictive._  Fitz shook his head and turned his attention back to the mirror.

“You look dope, bro, fo real!”

 

* * *

 

Simmons was hungry.  And slightly smelly.  And extremely pissed off.  She’d just spent the last twenty minutes stuck in the elevator at Fitz’s dorm with no cell reception.  A couple minutes in, _somehow_ , a stink bomb had gone off and filled the small space.   _Gee, I wonder who could’ve orchestrated this._  Jonesy was a dead man.   _He just may not know it yet._  Thankfully, the stench seemed to have aired itself out rather quickly, but she’d still been less than happy about her physical need to breathe during that stint in the Box of Flatulence.

So when she arrived at Fitz’s dorm room and found him palling around with the yob in question, a switch flipped in her brain and she gritted her teeth, suddenly feeling like a bull in Spain.   _Is this why he couldn’t hang out on Sunday?_  The worst part was that she’d been so nervous to ask.  When she had a specific goal in mind -- getting Fitz to eat properly, bolstering his study habits, sorting out the situation with Herrick -- it wasn’t hard to push Fitz into spending time with her, but this time, she’d simply wanted to see him.  Despite how comfortable they’d gotten, she’d still been having kittens at the thought of inviting a guy to the movies.  And when Fitz had brushed her off with a ‘ _Sorry, can’t do it.  Guy stuff; you wouldn’t understand.’_ it had stung a bit more than she cared to admit.

Showing up at his place after all that, she was angry enough that it took a few minutes to register the sight of him.  When her eyes finally caught up to her brain, she gasped.  Fitz was dressed like the world’s most ironic rapper.  Baggy jeans exposed the waistband of his underpants (surprising, given his embarrassment in the laundry room) and a thick wallet chain linked belt loop to pocket.  He sported a tight (well, tight-ish, on Fitz) white vest top, neon-green and black checkered high-tops, satiny windbreaker about three sizes too big, and several golden necklaces.  As she watched, Jonesy deposited a tall trucker’s cap onto Fitz’s head… sideways.  Simmons was aghast.   _I have no words._

Well, almost no words.

“Fitz!  Did you-- I don’t-- what the Devil?”

“Mah boy looks straight menace, dass whassup!  Whatcha think, Spunky?  Might be some hope for ‘im yet, ya feel me?”

_I will not feel you, no.  Not even if you were covered in cashmere and puppies._

“Yeah, Simmons.”  Fitz piped up.  “We pimped my style!  It’s dead illin’!”

 _Oh, God._  Her head started to shake of its own accord.  “No, no, no, we’re not doing this, Fitz.  You need to change.   _Now._ ”

“Chillax, Spunky!”  Jonesy trudged forward, sniffing like a bulldog.  “Or should I call ya Funky!  Girl, you rank!”  He fanned his hands exaggeratedly in front of his face.  

Simmons was vibrating with affront.  “Perhaps I _could_ relax, Jonesy, if _someone_ hadn’t sabotaged the lift and set off a fart bomb!”

Jonesy’s lamb-shank fist went between his teeth as he bellowed out his hilarity.

“What’s that about a bomb?”  Fitz looked alarmed.  And why was his face all sunburned?

 _Blimey.  I leave him alone for two days, and this is what happens._  “Fitz!  Clothes!  Now!”  It came out a little sharper than she might’ve liked, but given the circumstances, she felt it was justified.

“All right!  Don’t get your knickers in a twist…”   _And he’s mouthing off as well._  Fitz walked back to his bedroom, a strange sort of lopey gait that seemed to bounce awkwardly.   _Is that meant to be a strut?_  Simmons put her face into her hands.

Jonesy was the worst influence she’d ever seen.  This needed to end.   _Immediately._  The icy grip of desperation started to squeeze its thin digits into her skull.

Ignoring the chavvy buffalo’s continuing laughter, she stalked over to stand outside Fitz’s door, giving Herrick a half-hearted wave as the two Ops cadets headed out.

“Fitz?  Are you decent?  We need to talk.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you decent?”  As if she cared about his privacy.   _You’ve already violated my poor phone, and my relationship with my mum.  Why should my room be any different?_  Though Fitz had been glad to hear she’d said nothing about the bird during her little gab session.   _Probably keeping my attempted murder quiet, so she’ll have somethin’ to hold over me in future._

But he was dressed, at least.  “Yep, come on in.”

Simmons paraded in like her name was on the door.  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding,” she flatlined, watching him like a disapproving librarian.

“What?  You said to change clothes.”

“I didn’t mean-- is that a S.H.I.E.L.D. coat?  Did you pinch that from the lab?”

“I’m there often enough, I should have my own.  I’ll let you borrow it if you want.”  It wasn’t like he would suffer some nobody to wear his lab coat.   _It’s considerate enough of me to share with Simmons._

“Wha-- no!  And I won’t be seen at dinner with you in a lab coat.  Take that off.  It’s going back to Webb Hall.”

“Why?  What’s wrong with the way I look?”  It was a perfectly appropriate thing to wear.  Fitz was a scientist.   _And a man.  I should get to pick my own clothes._

“Fitz!  Take that stolen coat off this instant!”

Simmons was in rare form tonight.   _She’s bustin’ my balls, the harridan._  Fitz looked fine in the lab coat.  Better than fine, if he was allowed a little vanity for once in his life.   _What’s got her so dischuffed?_  But his mum’s words sailed in -- _pick your battles_.  He supposed, if it made Simmons happy, he wouldn’t wear the coat.  He undid the buttons and dragged it off, grizzling to himself.

“Oh…”  Simmons groaned.   _What is it now?_  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, composing herself.  When she spoke again, it was with tightly controlled moderation.  “Okay.  I know what to do.  That stink bomb in the lift made me a bit pongy, so let’s head back to mine and I’ll grab us new outfits.  Fortunately, we look about the same size…”

“No.”  Fitz lifted one finger.  “No!”  He raised his voice to make the point.  “I am not lettin’ you dress me in girls’ clothes like an ickle doll!  Can we just go eat?  Please?  I’m starvin’.”  Fitz’s normally limitless patience was stretched one-cell thin, like film on an onion.

“We could, if you weren’t in shrunken sweatpants and an undershirt.”  She said it like he was naked, before taking him in from crown to heel, and Fitz felt himself wilt under her scrutiny.  He didn’t like it.  “Fitz…” she stared, disbelieving, “are those socks and sandals?  I thought you had trainers!”

“They got wet when I was washing my cardigans in the tub.  Simmons, I’m not a mind reader.  What do you want from me?”

“Different clothes!”

Fitz threw his hands up, completely gobsmacked by her attitude.   _She helped me throw all my clothes out, for Pete’s sake!_  “Damnit, woman, does it look like I’ve got spares layin’ around?”

“Well evidently we need to figure this out!”  Simmons was getting a bit worked up as well.

“Thanks, Captain Smartypants.”  Fitz was not going to be intimidated.  He’d done nothing to deserve this.  “Listen -- once my livin’ allowance from my scholarship comes in, I’ll replace whatever you want.  Until then, Simmons, it’s either proper clothes, or food.”  He set his narrowed eyes on hers, challenging.  Fitz had been more than patient throughout this codswallop.  “And I can’t give up food.  Jonesy says I need gains to get swole.”   _Whatever that means._

Simmons had gone quiet.  But as expected, she couldn’t stay quiet for long.  “I might have a solution,” she breathed, ideas lighting up across her face like fireworks.  She blazed into a smile.  “Okay, so this is all very hush-hush and you can’t say anything to anyone… but do you remember that work conflict I had yesterday?”

Fitz made a noise of agreement.   _As if I could forget the dagger in my back._

“Right.  Well, you’ve heard of Dr. Franklin Hall, I assume?”

“The Chemical Kinetics whiz?  Ground-breaking theories, so controversial he’s never on campus even though he’s technically a professor here?  How do _you_ know him?”  Simmons had more secrets than she let on.

“I don’t; my parents do.  They were all at Cambridge together.  Anyway, it appears he’s hiring a research assistant, and… Fitz, he wants _me_!  Can you imagine?  It’s thrilling!”

Fitz looked at her, unimpressed and a little let down.   _So, what?  You just felt like braggin’?_  He sagely kept that thought to himself.

“The problem is…” Simmons chewed at her lip, “since I increased my courseload, I’m not sure I have the time to take it on.  I’m hard-pressed to finish everything as it is.  But Fitz, this would mean working with previously undiscovered elements, substances so rare we’ve only dreamed them!”

“So you want me to work for Dr. Hall instead?”  Fitz understood what she was saying now.   _I could use the money from this research appointment!_  His heart started to beat out a John Philip Sousa march.

“God, no!”   _Well that was unnecessarily emphatic._  The trombones fizzled in his chest, though Simmons was still beaming.  “It’s top secret!  I shouldn’t even have told you this much.  But if you’ll help me in the monkey lab, doing the clean-up, and some of the scut I don’t have time for, then I think I could manage it all.  And my new job pays uncommonly well, so in return, I’d be happy to buy you some clothes!”  She looked like a sunrise, full of hope and certainty.

Fitz opened his mouth, his first instinct to object.   _You can stuff your blinkin’ charity.  Janitor work?  I'm not your Groundskeeper Willie._

“I’ll even let you do your own shopping.”  Fitz rolled his eyes.   _How big of you._

“On the condition--” Simmons enunciated, holding up her palms, “that you do not allow Jonesy any input whatsoever in your style choices.”

 _Actually, that’s not bad advice._ He grimaced, remembering the way Simmons had reacted at seeing him in his “street” ensemble.   _And I guess she does owe me for chopping my ear off._   _Not to mention stealin’ that research job out from under my nose._  He opened his mouth again.

“And provided that--” she continued, glaring at him in accusation, “you help me prank that rotter once and for all.”

 _Oh… the stink bomb in the lift._  All the pieces started to snap together for Fitz.  It was personal now, for Simmons.  Fitz felt a laugh bubble up, wondering if Jonesy realized how mighty an enemy he’d made.   _To be fair, I was gonna prank him anyway._  He just hadn’t had the opportunity to tell Simmons, with how she’d ignored him the day before.  But Fitz couldn’t simply let her think she’d won.   _If I don’t push back, she’ll take advantage forever._

“Hmm… that’s a lot of work, Simmons.  Let’s say clothes… _and_ you swipe me into the cafeteria for a month.”

“What?!”  Her face was priceless.

“ _And_ you talk to your advisor about dropping some of these baby classes.  You’re obviously not learnin’ anything you don’t know, and it doesn’t make sense to sit there when you could be takin’ upper-division courses.  For example, with your precious Dr. Hall.”

Simmons looked dubious.  “I’ll think about it, Fitz, but I’m not sure--”

“I _am_ sure.  Drop that easy-peasy Bio and come take Neurobiology with me.  I’ve already arranged my transfer with the Headmaster; I know they’d let you do the same.”  He put on his best charm.  “Hell, we could probably graduate three years early, if we really tried.”  Fitz would never have said it outright, but he wouldn’t mind having a few more classes with Simmons at his side.  She was, he admitted, a big help with revising.  “And the sooner we stop bein’ freshmen, the better, wouldn’t you agree?”  She still seemed hesitant.  “C’mon, Simmons.  I don’t want to leave y’ behind.”

Simmons smiled at him, a small, shy thing that peeked through her teeth before scurrying across her cheeks.  “All right, then.  I’ll talk to Agent Weaver.  As for the rest of it -- do we have a deal?”

 

Fitz gave her a thumbs-up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [bigdamhero](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bigdamhero/) for the image of “street Fitz” that compels Jemma to take matters into her own hands right frikkin’ now.  
> The inspiration for Simmons getting stuck in an elevator goes to TheLateNightStoryteller on FF, and her story [Shapeshifters](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10470371/1/Shapeshifters).  
> Thanks once more to [starbrightnights](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starbrightnights) for the British slanginess.
> 
> *slides over a big pot of Texas chili to all my helpful peeps*  I didn’t feel like baking today.  Besides, chili fries?  Nom nom.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

  
Simmons’ head was full of marshmallows.  The “negotiation” with Fitz had gone better than she could possibly have hoped.  She swallowed a smirk, ticking off the results of their little chat.

1\.  Fitz was securely in her anti-Jonesy camp, teaming up against the pillock.  Full speed ahead on the Simmons-Fitz prank of the year!

2\.  She’d successfully prevented his wardrobe from ending up like something out of Flavor Flav’s closet.

3\.  Fitz was now basically her lab lackey.  Even with her new responsibilities for Dr. Hall, she’d get to see him practically every day.

Simmons would have been perfectly pleased with that.  But in an unexpected development, Fitz had asked her to dinner for the next _month_.  And _then_ , to make matters best, he wanted to take more classes together!  She could barely restrain her jazz hands.   _Yes_ , she thought smugly, _Jemma Simmons is no dummy when it comes to getting her way._

It had been Fitz’s last comment, thoughtfulness dipped in honey, that did her in.  She’d been silly before, to be so affected by his rejection, when he plainly _did_ want to spend time with her.  Suddenly, Simmons felt terrible for snapping at him about his outfit.   _Of course he wouldn’t have anything else to wear._  Not everyone could re-purchase an entire semester’s worth of clothes on a moment’s notice.  She’d only meant to help him look respectable, for his own sake, but ensconced in a huff, on the toes of her foul afternoon, it had sounded as if she cared more how he looked _with her_ .  And she did want him with her… but there was nothing superficial about it.

Sitting across from Fitz in the cafeteria booth, half-listening to him outline all the classes they should switch into, she couldn’t help marveling at how quickly they’d become friends.   _It’s been less than a fortnight, yet I could almost imagine we grew up together._  Expectedly, the connection had its root in her delight at finding someone against whom she could match wits.  Even when she thought back to how stroppy he’d been in the beginning, she found she didn’t mind -- that same bristle meant she probably wouldn’t need to share his friendship with many people.  Despite Fitz’s bad sides -- _stubborn, oversensitive, insufferable_ \-- in these last few weeks he’d also exposed good ones -- _creative, helpful, funny, smart_ \-- gradually letting those facets shine, like a crystal painstakingly extracted from a cave wall.  It was that slow reveal that had Simmons wondering what secret qualities dwelt deep in Fitz’s igneous rock, far below the spiky outer crust.

“Simmons?”

 _Crumbs._  She’d been daydreaming about Fitz’s rock walls.  “Sorry, what?”

“There’s a girl starin’ at me.”

 

“ _Omigaaawd_ , Jenna, is that one of my lab coats?”

Simmons showed her teeth in a fair approximation of social grace.  “Hello, Tabitha.”   _Perhaps I shouldn’t have let him wear it after all._  She’d let Fitz’s noisy stomach guilt her, and to tell the truth, the lab coat was better than the alternative.  “This is Fitz; he’s helping me with the myomer project.”  Tabitha wiggled her fingers, eyes roving over Fitz up like a remote-controlled toy Jeep.

“Sorry about the coat.  Would you believe, we forgot he was wearing it!” Simmons forced herself through the mistruth with an overly cheery gaze.  It was easier, lying to someone she didn’t like.   _Or when it’s to protect Fitz._  “But no need to worry!  Our very next stop is the lab, and we’ll make sure to put it right where it goes.”

The grad student turned to the engineer with a slight bounce.  “Hi!  Fitz?  That’s a great name.  You can call me Bits.”  She tilted her head like a pomeranian.  “Hey, we rhyme!”

 _Good God._   _Where’s Kibbles when you need her?_  Simmons regained the woman’s attention.  “Is Kimberly around?”

“Nope, she’s out with her boyfriend.  I _haaate_ that guy,” she whined, then shot a vapid glance at Fitz.  “Not that I hate men!  I like men.”

“Okay…”  Fitz was like a penguin in a tree.

“It’s like, super busy in here.”  Bits looked at them expectantly, twirling a strand glossy hair.  “Not a ton of open tables…” she raised her eyebrows, “maybe I could squeeze in…”

“Oh, of all the luck,” Simmons tutted regretfully.  “We were _just_ leaving.  Come along, Fitz!”  She jumped to her feet, ignoring Fitz’s protests as she plopped her tray on top of his, and pulled him away from the booth.  “Toodle-oo!”  Her left eye twitched.   _Toodle-oo?  Am I eighty years old?_

Fitz was hiding a chuckle behind his hand.  He bid Tabitha goodbye in a strange falsetto.  “Yes, we really must dash!” he fluted out.  “Off to make the lab tickety-boo!  Pip-pip!  Such fun!”   _Cheeky git._  Simmons gave his arm a good pinch where she still held it, and he squirmed out of her reach, hurrying ahead a few paces.  With a final nod at Bits, who was giggling about “ _suuuch_ cute accents,” Simmons strode to catch up.

“Can’t believe she didn’t mention how bad y' smell,” he joked, waggish.  “I hope you’ve got a scented candle somewhere in the lab?”

Simmons shook her head at him, withering, even as she couldn’t stop her smile.  “You’ve hardly room to talk about what’s appropriate.”  She pointed her eyes towards his sandal-covered socks.  “And I don’t stink half as badly as your impersonation of me.”

 

* * *

 

 

Fitz stared at Simmons across the lab bench.  Even reeking like a dumpster skunk, she was a complete professional.  To be fair, here in the monkey lab, the simian stench was enough to supersede any lingering odor on Simmons' clothes.  Talking of clothes, while Simmons calibrated the myomers, Fitz was currently being forced to browse through her favorite store website because she had some "Preferred Customer" account.  He didn't doubt it.   _She probably paid for their summer homes._  The shop's entire selection appeared hand-tailored to Simmons' personal style.  Not that her clothes were bad, although Fitz did wonder if her penchant for Doctor Who had colored her ideas of what a “grown-up” would wear.  She seemed to like structured clothes: blazers and knits, button-ups, the occasional tie.  It didn't look especially comfortable compared to T-shirts and jeans, but if Simmons could dress like a man, so could Fitz.   _And she didn’t even let me open the A &F site that Jonesy recommended._

He chose frugally, however.  The only time Fitz was ever greedy was at the cafeteria buffet.   _Which, I’m proud to say, I’ll be seeing a lot more of._  Fitz’s meal plan only allowed him access five times a week, but he now had a month of free meals to look forward to, per his agreement with Simmons.  Fitz patted himself on the back for that bit of cracking business acumen.

 _Ah, yes.  Food._  Fitz grabbed a pilfered pizza roll out of his lab coat pocket, wolfing it down in two bites.  Simmons had made him leave before he was full.  Which was strange, although it was probably down to that loony Tabitha calling her Jenna.   _Simmons is so suspicious, that one._  It was likely an honest mistake; Americans didn't hear the name Jemma very often.   _That's a shame._  Jemma was really a very pretty name.  Fitz mulled it over, batting it around with his tongue and savoring its edges.   _Jemma._  It called up images of small, sparkly, precious things.  Of course, Fitz didn't have any use for diamonds except as a cutting tool on his lab instruments.  But it was still a nice name.

"All set to test the new wing formations!"  Simmons announced brightly.  "Have you filled your cart yet?  Remember I have that savings code, so you have to buy at least 20 things."  She came around to stand behind him, peering at the computer screen over his shoulder.  Her breath warmed over his neck and he was momentarily distracted.

"Oh, good choices!"

"Don't sound so surprised."  He wasn't a complete chump.

Simmons gently swatted his arm with the back of her hand and turned her focus back to the screen.  "Ooh, get that slipover.  It’ll set off your eyes beautifully."

"Yeah?"  That was interesting.   _Since when does Simmons think about my eyes?_

"And this..." she grabbed the mouse, "and this for sure..." she was practically leaning into his back, "three of these..." her caramel hair fell forward, tickling his ear.  She _tsk’d_.  "What are these wide ties doing here, Fitz, you'll look like a 70’s car salesman!"  She changed them out for the skinny variety and clicked the "Checkout" button.  "Budge over, Fitz.  I have to put in my account information."

Simmons shoved herself next to him now, fully in his personal space, and it didn’t bother him nearly as much as it had when they first met.  Actually, if he was being honest, having Simmons practically tucked into his side felt… not intrusive, so much as comforting.   _Safe._  Like a railing at the top of a mountain, a solid buttress he could lean on and still take in the view.  He drew a deep breath.

And was immediately horrified by her scent.   _It’s like an Easter egg they didn’t find ‘til St. Andrew’s Day._  Poor girl couldn’t help it, but Fitz didn’t have to sit there in the eye of the boggy storm.  Naturally Fitz was much too polite to say anything, and he didn’t recoil, exactly, but allowed the stink to chivvy him off towards the myomer table, which was currently covered in unfinished gadgets from his tech case.

The farty smell, and replacing his entire closet, had got him thinking about Jonesy.

 

“So… don’t be angry, but…”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait!  It’s a holiday weekend (Happy Birthday, USA!) and I got pressed into the chain gang of familial responsibility.  Not that I mind.  I like my family.  
> Thanks to starbrightnights for slang.  Folks, apparently things like “toodle-pip” are extremely outdated.  But I’m pretty sure FitzSimmons could say any crazy thing they wanted and Americans would just chalk it up to them being British.  
> St. Andrew’s Day is Scotland’s national holiday. It’s on November 30, so if you left an Easter egg out for that many months it would smell pretty bad. (Scottish people, this is all from Wikipedia; please correct me if I'm wrong.)  
> Special appearance by Tabitha, just for you, AthenaMuze!  
> For everyone else, if you were worried about Bits becoming a regular character, you don’t have to be.  I just liked the idea that Simmons would chill out enough to let Fitz go to dinner in a lab coat and sweatpants.  
> And hey, they’re back in the lab!  Science and monkeys in the next chapter.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

“So… don’t be angry, but…”

Simmons selected next-day shipping and finalized the purchase before looking up.   _Angry?_   _What’s he done?_

“I sort of got a head start on pranking Jonesy.”  Fitz picked up a miniscule wired device, only as big or as wide as a penny.  “On Sunday, when I went on the town with him?”   _Ooh, better stop talking.  It’s ‘guy stuff’ and I wouldn’t want my brain to implode._  Fitz kept on, oblivious.  “I installed one of these little beauties into his key fob.  It’s just a tracker, and it doesn’t save data, so we’ll have to be logged in to check it.  But with a few improvements,” he lifted his chin proudly, “it gives readouts in 3D space -- not that it was easy, modifyin’ the tech at this scale -- and at least we’ll know where Jonesy is so he doesn’t happen upon us while we’re fillin’ his car with old shrimp.”

Simmons quirked an eyebrow.

“Or whatever we’re going to do,” he added quickly.  “And, erm, there’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?”  Simmons was genuinely curious.

“While Jonesy was tanning, I programmed his phone to go off at random and play snippets of “Macho Man” by the Village People.”

Simmons chuckled.  “So, you just happened to have ‘Macho Man’ on hand?  Should I ask why?”

Fitz scrunched his mouth at her.  “Mmm, you’re funny.  But that’s just it -- the song was already on Jonesy’s phone!  I think,” Fitz looked scandalously delighted, “he legitimately loves the Village People.”

“Oh, how perfect.”  Simmons’ own cheeks lit up with mirth.  “And well done, Fitz!  You _have_ been a busy bee, haven’t you?  I admit, I wasn’t entirely sure what you were doing hanging around with him anyway.”

“Please.”  Fitz gave her a patronizing look.  “You really thought I was buyin’ all that tosh about my inner bro?”  He paused, shifting his gaze to the floor. “And, erm, he may’ve taught me how to wash wool.”

“What a saint,” Simmons rolled her eyes.  “But honestly, Fitz, I just don’t think making his phone play his favorite bodybuilding anthem is such a punishment.  I have the feeling it’ll only encourage Jonesy to start fist pumping at odd hours.”

“Well pardon _me_ for seizing an opportunity to do what _you_ wanted in the first place.”  Fitz leveled her with an annoyed look.

“I only mean that if something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well… and I thought this was going to be a team effort,” she placated.

“All right then, Queen of Mean,” Fitz said, as if there was no way she’d be able to think of a better prank, “What do you suggest?”

Simmons had given this some thought.  “Well…”

 

* * *

 

They swapped ideas back and forth as Fitz walked over to check on Pacino.  The poor guy was still totally out of it, sequestered in one of the smaller separate cages.  Simmons said that he’d gone out for surgery earlier that day -- something to do with the psych trial -- but that according to Kibbles, everything was fine.  It didn’t keep Fitz from wanting his monkey friend to wake up.  Still, as far as he could see, the Zakadel was sleeping normally, even smacking his lips a little as he dreamed, as if he were frolicking in a mountain of ill-gotten bananas.

He heard a chitter from off to the side and turned to see Sweet Pea and the other two, sneaking back from raiding Pacino’s snack pile.   _Good grief, where do they pick up these bad habits?_  Each of them had a few nibbles in hand, and Sweet Pea was holding his towel-cape.  Fitz felt a rush of kinship and protectiveness towards the unconscious Pacino.   _That’s it._ He grabbed the cage divider and slid it into the groove in the bars, sectioning off Pacino’s corner and preventing the others from dwindling his stash any further.   _And I’m not givin’ any of you artful dodgers anythin’ else to eat, either._  

“All right, magpies, no more burglary from you today.”  Fitz wagged his index finger right to left.  Sweet Pea tipped her head to the side, gazing up at him with large dark eyes.  She still had the towel wrapped around her small frame, its thin fabric engulfing her.  She pouted adorably,  and Fitz had to suppress the instinct to let her keep the thing.

“Sweet Pea…” he made himself stern.  She looked the very picture of innocence.  “That’s not yours.  Can I have it, please?”

Fitz put out his palm.  Sweet Pea scooted forward, right hand clutching the cape closed at her throat, and thrust her left out from under it.  She placed one Cheerio into his hand.

“Thank you, darlin’, but you know that’s not what I meant.”

She licked her lips and gave him a wide smile.  Getting on her feet, she flapped the towel at Fitz, but kept it in her clutches.

“That’s right, bonny one.  Your friend’ll be missin’ that.  Would you mind?”  Fitz’s voice was soft and patient as he extended his hand again.

She blew a raspberry and planted her feet, twisting her petite torso back and forth, little fists gripping the cape to make it fly.  It almost seemed like…

“Are y’ dancin’?  Want me to put on some music for you?”

Sweet Pea clapped her dainty hands and started jumping up and down.

“Tell you what.  I’ll play a song, if you give back the towel.  Got it?”

She pointed a finger at Fitz, insistent, and started bopping around again.

“Not a chance.  I’ve never been much of a dancer.”

The pretty Zakadel loped her way to the bars and put the towel through, blowing spit bubbles and puckering smoochy faces at Fitz until his smiling cheeks won the battle with his head.

“Okay, I’m convinced!” he laughed, taking the towel and putting it into Pacino’s enclosure where he could reach it once he woke.  “You drive a hard bargain, baby girl.”

He turned back to Simmons, to find her watching him tenderly.  He had a flash of guilt  -- _I’m supposed to be workin’, not faffin’ about like this_ \-- but Simmons didn’t look angry.  Rather the opposite.  And Fitz wasn’t going to remind her that he was supposed to be doing something else.

“Maestro!”   _Or whatever the female equivalent is._  Fitz raised his hands.  “Music, please!  This puggie’s expectin’ a dance.”

Simmons beamed and tapped a few keys on the computer.  Within seconds, a rowdy foot-stomping tune broke into the air.  Fitz reluctantly pulled his eyes from Simmons’ smile, and faced Sweet Pea again.   _Mum wouldn’t like me weaselin’ on a deal._ He loosened his knees and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.  For the pièce de résistance, he pointed with both hands and shook his arms around haphazardly.

Simmons was giggling behind him.  “I’m not sure that counts as dancing.”

Fitz continued to shimmy as he turned towards her, grinning.  “Oh, and I suppose you’re a regular Len Goodman.  I’ll have you know these moves are great at parties.”

“Great for taking the mickey…” she chuckled.  But her foot was tapping to the beat.

 _I should invite her to dance with me._  Fitz wasn’t graceful by any stretch, but they were just having fun.   _What’s the harm?  Music’s already on._  And he’d get the chance to mock her in retaliation.

Then he felt a tug at his neck.

“The Hell?”  He tried to spin around, but couldn’t.  Little hands -- _no idea whose_ \-- had a firm grip on his coat collar, effectively pinning his back to the cage.  He doubted he could turn enough to see what was happening, without yanking the monkey’s arms bodily through the bars.   _Simmons’d have my hide if I dislocated one of these guys’ shoulders._  Fitz pried the fingers off his coat only to have them replaced with at least two more sets of digits, which hitched his collar up higher, not quite threatening to choke him.  Fitz went to work double-time attempting to extract himself, but every time he got loose from one monkey, another took its place.

Simmons was about as useful as Captain Hook’s second glove, dissolving into laughter as the monkeys did their best to asphyxiate Fitz with their tiny combined strength.  “Simmons!  Don’t just stand there!”

“Okay…” she said, with a brazen arch to her brow, and pulled out her phone to aim at him.

“You wouldn’t dare!”  Fitz was still immobile, three Zakadels hard at work on him, mussing his hair all higgledy-piggledy, lab coat bunched around his neck and riding up, ill-fitting sweatpants and shameful footwear on display.  “Simmons!  I swear to--!”

 _Click._  The sound of the camera phone shutter reached him through the music and the mayhem.

 

Fitz closed his eyes.   _This is why I shouldn’t dance._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it’s part of my head canon that Fitz refuses to dance.  But when an adorable monkey insists, who can say no?  And really, how cute is Fitz around Sweet Pea?  
> A “puggie” is a Scottish word for monkey.  Y'all probably know that "bonny" means pretty.  
> So apparently I’m on a sugar diet because I can’t help writing fluffy cotton candy shenanigans.  Hope you guys liked it; tell me what you think!


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

Once Fitz extricated himself from the Zakadels' clutches (with a little of Simmons’ help) they went back to work putting the deformable wings through their final configuration trial.  Still wiping a chuckle from the corner of her eye, Simmons helped Fitz connect the circuits and fit the biomimetics to the drone.  With an excited raise of their eyebrows, she and Fitz looked at each other for a minute before silently nodding in unison.  Fitz raised the joystick pad.

The drone started to whirr and sped forward, its wings jerking and twisting upward as it rose, which seemed to give it more lift.  Simmons aimed her handheld radar, tracking the little aircraft’s movement as she took readings for speed, drag, and stability.

“Okay, so takeoff worked!”  Fitz’s voice rose in surprise halfway through the statement.  “Now if I can just--”  he dodged out of the way of the miniature plane, and manhandled the controls in a near-miss attempt to keep their hard work from smashing into the wall.  “--keep the bloody thing level while I--” he wiggled the joystick, “--activate the remaining EAPs, then--”

“--then we can test the last of the wing shapes in mid-air,” Simmons finished.  The drone was flying around the room, the monkeys jabbering as they took notice of what was happening.

“Should we have made this a helicopter, do you think?” she asked, noting his difficulty in evening out the flight.

“Hey.  Hey!  My design’s not the issue,”  his brow furrowed as he yanked on the antenna, trying to get better radio control.  “It’s the bioelectrics bein’ difficult.  I’ll have you know that by the time I was ten, I’d already built a model airplane with wings that could gimble -- erm, gimble means--”

“--rotate on an axis--” she supplied, impatience tinting her expression.

He squinched his face as he ducked under the little bot’s weaving trajectory, “--right, well.  The wings slid out and tilted to help it fly at different speeds.”  Fitz banged the control pad against the heel of his palm.  “So whatever’s goin’ on with your twitchy myomers, don’t put that on me.”

Simmons felt a touch of defensiveness rise up in her stomach.   _He’s about to crash our project and he thinks_ _**I’m**_ _to blame?!_  “It’s not the myomers, and I’m only bringing it up because a helicopter would be able to hover in place while we tested it, instead of making all this _nonsense!”_

“Oh, sure.”  Fitz argued with narrowed eyes, “It could hover, but a chopper doesn’t have half the flight capabilities, and everyone knows how shaky--”  Fitz stopped and turned to her slack-jawed, reaching up a hand to pluck the drone out of the air without looking.

 _Huh.  I guess he’s_ _**not** _ _going to crash our project._

“Simmons,”  a smile was creeping over Fitz’s face.  “That’s brilliant!”  He set down the tiny plane and hurried to his sketchbook.  “We’ll need one set of stiff rotor blades for lift, of course, but I think -- and I’m usually dead on -- if we had, erm, a set of deformable wings that could retract and extend laterally, it would certainly get rid of any wobblin’ about!”

“So the helicopter could hover in one place without rocking or tipping…”  Simmons was starting to see the possibilities.

“Exactly.  See, the bio-wings would go out for balance--” Fitz demonstrated.

“--like putting your arms out to your sides when walking on a beam--”

“--which’d be perfect anytime the chopper needed to stay especially still--”

“--for surveillance photos, or if it needed to use a cloaking mechanism--”

“--yeah, or I was thinkin’ of outfitting it with sniper turrets for long-distance sharpshootin’.”

 _There he goes again, with the guns._  Simmons was beginning to comprehend the need for weapons, and she was getting used to seeing Fitz’s unfinished ones laying around, but it still soured her a bit on the thought of actually constructing the copters.  She did have to admit, however, that Fitz’s élan for new ideas was slightly titillating, inasmuch as it mirrored her own.  “Well, for now, let’s focus on the task at hand.”

“Right.”  Fitz jiggled his head, as if to clear it, and put his notepad down.  “Yes.  One thing at a time.”  He smiled sheepishly and started the drone up again, his earlier practice serving him in good stead as they went through the wing variations -- bubbling, tapering, and lengthening -- and tested to see how much air resistance each formation would create.

After about an hour, Fitz landed the plane expertly, cocky almost, flaring the wings and scooping the air to bleed off speed.  As they high-fived the success of their project, Simmons was impressed at how he’d recovered from his earlier frustration, adapting to the swoop and bob of the little flying machine with barely a learning curve.  When it came to aeronautics, Fitz could show them all a few things.   _But I’ve known that since day one._

Fitz was rubbing at the juncture between his neck and shoulders, likely sore from hunching them while he’d fiddled with the joystick.  Simmons spent a brief moment wishing they were better friends so that she could offer him a neck massage.   _Easy, Jemma.  You’ll run the boy off, and then where would you be?_  Fitz ran a hand over his face as he looked at the clock, and a groan escaped when he saw the time.

“Lord, I’m hungry.”

Simmons recalled with a pang how she’d interrupted his dinner in order to avoid Tabitha’s hyperactive company.  “Well…”  She’d never invited him over this late before.  “I have bread and cold cuts in my dorm.  And we do have to write up these results.  I could make you a sandwich…  That is, if you're not too tired.”

“You can make me a sandwich?  If you can do that, can you make me taller?” he grinned.  “Sounds great.  I’ll just say goodnight to the monkeys.”

The one in the separate cage was awake now, and Simmons watched Fitz spend a minute with the creature, talking quietly and handing him a treat before moving over to chat with the smaller one who’d been his dance partner earlier in the night.  A soft flush misted Simmons’ neck as she observed the indulgent, almost fatherly manner that enveloped Fitz whenever he dealt with the Zakadels.  She knew he’d even named some of them.   _That can’t be a good idea._  These were research animals, not pets.  But Fitz was so adorable around them, and they weren’t part of any dangerous experiments.   _And he’ll be popping by the lab for the foreseeable future…_ There was no reason to make Fitz sad at this point.  The monkey trial was a long-term study, so there was plenty of time to deal with the complication of him forming an attachment.   _We’ll talk about it when we need to._  For now, Simmons simply drank in the sight of him being so gentle.

He caught her staring as he walked across to where she stood, and she had to dissemble the pink that accosted her cheeks.  “You ready, Simmons?”  He helped her finish putting away their supplies, fastidious about the exact placement of each item in his case.  Out of the edge of her vision, she spied him erasing something in the lab notes before tucking them into the side pocket of his bag.  Curious, she waited a few beats until he was busy elsewhere, then sneaked a peek.   _That pest._  He’d changed the order of their names at the top of the page, putting his first.   _Hmm._  She knew Fitz was probably just pushing her buttons, but after his little show of dexterity with the drone, she was slightly more inclined to let him keep top billing.

 

_And Fitz-Simmons does have a nice ring to it._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More sci-fi!  Most of the physics is true.  The part that’s not true is the myomers being able to make wings change shape.  
> The helicopter with retractable side wings (and I think, gun turrets) is from Ghost in the Shell.  
> There’s a real plane with variable-geometry wings that gimble named the F-14 Tomcat.  
> Getting them to think about building copters is kind of how I pictured them starting to think about the DWARFs, y’all. And hey! They got their nickname! Origin stories all over the place, hooray!


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

Simmons’ dorm was quiet when they arrived back at her room, and Fitz suddenly felt very conscious of the fact that night had fallen and this was _her room_.  His tongue was clumsy in his mouth and he gulped against it, drumming fingers restlessly against his thigh as Simmons unlocked the door and shooed him inside.   _Is she trying to sneak me in before anyone sees?_  He supposed it wouldn’t be so bad to be associated to Simmons by rumor, but clearly she didn’t return the feeling.   _Not that I can blame her._  Fitz knew he must look a fright, in his white T-shirt, dark gray sweats, and embarrassing shoes.   _She could’ve at least let me keep the lab coat until the new clothes arrived._ But true to her word, Simmons had insisted he leave everything in its place for Bits to find.  Unfortunately, that had made the walk back a true test of Fitz’s Scottish endurance.  Despite a recent handful of warm afternoons, the early October nights were cold and breezy, and Fitz had spent most of his wherewithal trying not to shiver.

Simmons hadn’t been so lucky, even with a few more layers on.   _From now on, I’m keepin’ a hoodie in the lab._  The poor girl’s teeth were chattering by the time they reached the main door of her building, and Fitz wished he’d had something besides the literal shirt off his back to offer her.  He guessed he could’ve put his arm around her…   _Simmons seems to like all that touchy-feely stuff._  But he’d never spent time with a girl, and he wasn’t sure about the social protocols of hugging.  Besides, she did have that slight hum of manure about her at the moment.   _New this Fall… Latrine… by Calvin Klein._   Ultimately, he’d figured, if Simmons wanted to hold him close for warmth, she’d do it.  She wasn’t shy.   _She’s never afraid._

Simmons rubbed her arms briskly and went to her dresser.  “First off, I’m sorry to say, I’m in desperate need of a shower.  A few minutes of hot water should be enough to banish the chill.”  She held a small bundle of clothes close to her chest and wrinkled her nose.  “And wash Jonesy’s sense of humor off me.  Do you mind?”

 _Do I mind if you use the shower in your own home?_ “No, ‘s fine.  Take your time.”

“I’ll make us those sandwiches just as soon as I’m out.  In the meantime, help yourself to tea or hot chocolate, anything you like.”  She waved at the microfridge area.

Fitz made a beeline for the Cup o' Noodles.   _Success!_  There were two left in the box.  He pumped his fist in triumph and filled the electric kettle, switching it on.

“Thanks.”   _Why isn’t she moving?  Did she forget how to shower?_  Simmons was watching him critically.

“Aren’t _you_ cold?”

 _Baltic._  “Me?” he scoffed.  “Where I come from, this is swimmin’ weather.”

“Mmm-hmm.”  She went back to the chest of drawers and pulled out a few more things, leaving them in a folded stack atop the bureau.  “Well.  In case you change your mind.  Oh, and Fitz?”

Fitz inclined his head but didn’t stop preparing the soup.

“Whatever you do…”

He turned towards her, a small prickle of apprehension climbing his spine.

The stadium-sized grin on Simmons’ face belied the warning note in her voice.  “Try not to open the window!”  She ducked into her bathroom before he had a chance to respond.  Fitz stuck his tongue out at the closed door between them.

He peeled the lid back onto the ramen cup and set about waiting three minutes.  The noodles would warm him up lickety-split.  But it wouldn’t hurt to see what Simmons laid out, even if it was likely a bunch of girl’s clothes. Maybe even a skirt, some kind of poor-taste attempt at a kilt joke.  Why couldn’t people just be original for once?  Fitz chuckled.   _Yeah, right._   _From what I’ve seen, I’ve a better chance of wearing a skirt than Simmons has of owning one._

 _Huh.  Not girl’s clothes._  There was a pair of flannel pyjama trousers that were slightly too big even for Fitz, and a bulky cable-knit forest green jumper that might’ve been Simmons’ size, but definitely read as unisex.

 _Why does she have guy’s clothes in her dorm?_  Fitz’s stomach turned like a power drill.   _Not like I care._  He just thought it was strange.  Did she have a boyfriend back in England?  Were these his sleep bottoms?  She’d never mentioned anyone.   _You nit.  She doesn’t have to tell you everything._  Fitz felt betrayed all the same.  He’d thought they were two peas in a pod, and here she had this double life he knew nothing about.   _Somewhere, there’s a bloke wearin’ only the top half of this pyjama set, thinkin’ about Simmons._  Ick.  Fitz had the fleeting urge to check under the bed for arsehole boyfriends.

The ramen was ready, and it tasted like salt and ash.   _But why would she offer me her boyfriends’ clothes?_  Maybe they’d broken up.  Maybe it was symbolic.   _Hmm.  Maybe it’s a test._  Some “if the shoe fits” business.  And he was cold.  And he definitely felt overexposed in his current trousers.   _They’ve shrunk so much they’re practically yoga pants at this point, for goodness’ sake._  Decisively, Fitz kicked off his sandals, pulled the jumper over his head and shrugged out of the sweatpants.

Naturally, Simmons chose that exact moment to open the door.  

The screech that came out of Fitz’s throat was closer to a pterodactyl than a man.  As soon as the sound of the latch registered, he’d jumped across the room, his back to her, hands splayed out to conceal his briefs-clad bum as he searched for better cover.

“Shut your eyes!” he shrieked, as he tried to hide his legs behind her desk.   _Lord, why’d I have to wear my superhero underoos, today of all days?_

“Fitz, what on Earth are you doing?” she exclaimed, but the light in the room dimmed as she re-closed the bathroom door to merely ajar.

“This was all you!” he accused.  “You left me that stuff to change into!

Simmons started to laugh.  “Well, yes, but I thought you’d wait to dress in the bathroom.”

 _It’s like she has ESP for embarrassing me._  “Oh, mother of all--” he pulled the new PJ bottoms on in a rush, tripping himself.  “Don’t come out yet!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Fitz checked himself in her mirror to ensure all his important bits were under wraps.  “Okay.  Go ahead.”

He heard the squeak of the door.  “Fitz?  Why’re your eyes closed?”

They remained clenched shut.  “I’m bein’ a gentleman?  In case you’re in a robe or somethin’?”   _Oh, bollocks._  Now he was imagining Simmons in a robe.  Or _something_.

“I’m not,” her voice carried all the amusement of a theme park, “but thank you, I suppose.”

Fitz squinted open one eyelid.  Simmons was toweling off her hair, looking at him with undisguised affection.  Heat rose to his ears, and he was grateful for the sunburn that camouflaged his red face.   _Affection?_ He must be misinterpreting.   _She’s probably just laughing at the memory of my pasty white legs._  Fitz didn’t have much practice with friends, so most of Simmons’ reactions were still coated in mystery.  Which was fun, in some ways.  As in sync as he felt with her in certain respects -- intellectually, for instance -- Fitz realized that trying to guess her thoughts was a game in its own right.   _I’ve always been good at guessin’ games.  
_

She busied herself with bread, meat, and cheese, while Fitz made a cup of tea.

“Here.”  He hoped his face implied the apology for the awkwardness earlier.  “I hope that’s all right, I didn’t know about caffeine this late, but if we’re meant to stay up workin’...”

Her eyebrows went up as she took the mug from him.  At the taste, they rose in such surprise her forehead looked like the McDonald’s logo.

“Fitz!  How did you…?”

Did she really think he couldn’t fix a cup of tea?   _Hmmph. I know what I’m about._

Simmons smiled at him, soft as dandelions, and brushed his wrist with her fingertips.  “It’s lovely.”

Fitz stumbled over his foot a little as he moved to sit at the end of her bed, propped against the wall.  Opening his laptop, he typed up their lab notes in a flash and expanded the report, adding a few of his own observations that Simmons had missed.  The sight of their combined names, his first, left him strangely pleased, oddly… strong.  Physically larger than before.   _I was sure she’d change it, the stubborn jenny._  Though he’d enjoyed the fencing match of Simmons-Fitz vs. Fitz-Simmons, it appeared to be over.  Fitz had the vague impression he’d won more than just a naming competition.

 

* * *

 

 

Simmons didn’t like anyone to make her tea.  It might mean she was a control freak, but she preferred not to sip through a bad cup just because someone thought they were “helping.”  And Fitz was the last person she’d expected to spontaneously prepare her a mug.  But a friendly gesture was a friendly gesture, and one from Fitz was more welcome than most.  As she grabbed the warm ceramic, she told herself that no matter how it tasted, she would be gracious.  Nothing could make her disappoint Fitz, not when he was watching her like a puppy who’d just learned to shake paws.   

So when it tasted like she’d brewed it herself, she was stunned.  “Fitz!  How did you…”

He chastised her with the shape of his eyes and the set of his jaw.   _Silly Jemma._  She knew that Fitz was good at everything he considered worthwhile.  And apparently, it had been worth his while to watch her make tea.  The cracks in her heart widened, dripping sweet molasses and gooey appreciation.  It made her chest feel sluggish and her pulse race all at once.  Simmons reached out to touch his hand, just a whisper of contact to communicate how thankful she was at finding someone who could anticipate her like this.  “It’s lovely.”

As he settled onto her mattress to work on their lab report, she realized that, in the aftermath of Fitz perfecting her drink, the pressure was on for this sandwich.  Fortunately, sandwich-making was solidly in Simmons’ wheelhouse.  But the original plan of saving time with cold food wasn’t going to cut it anymore.  She dragged her panini press out from her closet and plugged it in, blessing the instinct that had prompted her to sauté a homemade onion-and-red-wine marmalade a few days before.  Actually, she recalled with a quirk of her lip, she’d spent the day cooking to distract herself from Fitz blowing her off, so she supposed she had him to thank for the relish in the first place.   _Well, then._

A few minutes later she set Fitz’s plate on the bed next to him with a flourish: pastrami and swiss on toasted sour rye, with just a scrape of whole grain brown mustard and sweet onion spread.  She’d even cut a pickle into spears and found a bag of classic sea-salt crisps.  Her stomach fell when Fitz barely looked up from the keyboard, grabbed the sandwich in one hand and pushed it into his mouth like it was a gas station burrito.

She twisted her fingers around, worrying at the hem of her shirt for a second.  A second was all the time it took.  Fitz’s head popped up and he looked at the plate, then at Simmons, then back at the plate.  He began to say something, but his mouth was full.  With an audible swallow, Fitz placed the sandwich gingerly back on the dish and cast intense blue eyes across hers.  “Jemma.  This is delicious.”

Her eyes sprung out wide, and he apologized.  “Erm, Simmons, I mean.  Thanks.  You’re a pal.”

 _I don’t mind!_  It had been unexpected, to hear Fitz -- _Leopold?  No, Fitz_ \-- use her given name, but it sounded natural as well, like a corner piece of a jigsaw puzzle sliding into place.  Still, if she was being rational, after graduation she’d be required to call her S.H.I.E.L.D. co-workers by their surnames anyway, so it just made sense to keep up the pattern they’d established.   _I should certainly hope Fitz will be working with me in future._  Therefore she kept quiet, allowing him to correct himself, but secretly hoping he’d use her first name again.

“So glad you like it,” her voice sounded stilted, and she rushed to say more, hoping a flood of words would bridge the distance her tone had built.  “And it’s not even the best one I make!”  She took a short breath, tittering.  “I could list them all for you, but then we’d be here all night.”   _Blink._  “Obviously that’s hyperbole; we wouldn’t really be here all night-- in fact we are allowed _no_ overnight guests of any stripe--”   _God, am I being weird?  What’s all this gibberish?_   _Why’m I talking gibberish?_  Fitz was looking at her like she was wearing a hockey uniform on a baseball field.  She flattened her palms on her legs, decided otherwise, clasped them behind her back, which was even worse, and ended with them studiously motionless at her sides.  She walked back to her own sandwich and finally allowed her hands to move.  Perched at her desk, Simmons ate her meal and sipped her wonderful tea, blushing furiously at her own fluster and hoping the dim artificial light would keep her skin from telling tales.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not convinced that this chapter (and the next one, since my outline for this chapter ended up blowing way past my expected word count) needed to be part of the story.  But, amandajbruce on FF put forth a very good case.  She also gave me the idea for Fitz closing his eyes so tight, trying to be a gentleman.  
> While I’m passing credit around where it’s due, the furious amount of blushing in here is due to starbrightnights.  
> Let me just say that I will require TV confirmation of it being okay to call Fitz anything but “Fitz” before I will do it myself.  
> Heads up -- I will probably take my time with the next few chapters.  I’m consciously trying not to allow fanfiction (which is very fun but doesn’t keep my house clean or my kids entertained) to become my number one priority.  Also, my sister-in-law just had babies (plural!) so we’ll be going to see her.  
> I just realized I didn’t explain whose PJ pants Simmons has in her bureau. I have my explanation, but I’m curious to hear your guesses! (If I don’t clarify this in the next chapter, I’ll let you know who the owner is in the notes at the end.)


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

Fitz’s mind was always buzzing, always darting.  Even in sleep, he tended to rove across his bed, restless brain and limbs refusing to settle.  Which was why, when he went blissfully blank at the first bite of Jemma’s miraculous sandwich, it was all he could do to stop the obscene moan that started in his chest.  Like a flash grenade that made the screen go white in one of his video games, Fitz’s entire world stopped, returning full force a moment later in a symphony of taste.  It was a nightingale’s song dancing out over his tongue.  It was the rebirth of his palate.   _It’s a ruddy sandwich baptism._

Fitz felt the moment demanded a tribute, deciding the best way to show his thanks would be to use Simmons’ first name, which had been ricocheting around his skull.   _This is the perfect opportunity to test it out._ And, her reaction would let him probe the limits of their relationship, help him navigate the boundary between study buddies and sandwiches-every-day-til-I-die buddies.  

It was a fracas.  The instant _Jemma_ escaped his lips, she stilled, eyes becoming planets, and he was forced into a hasty recovery, which he executed with less than customary pizzazz.   ‘ _You’re a pal?’  Might as well’ve punched her on the arm._   And why would she want him using her first name, anyway?  Fitz knew how professional she was, how composed.  The majority of their time together had been spent in class, the library, or the lab.  Hardly grounds for intimacy.   _Okay, not_ _**intimacy** _ _\-- I mean, not-- There’s more than one kind of-- Arrgh._  The point is he should have stuck to the status quo.

It was just hard, not to want more of Simmons, especially when he’d been missing her the past few days, confronted hourly by just how poor a substitute Herrick and Jonesy made.  The last thing Fitz wanted was to feel like that again -- _not ever_ \-- wondering if he’d done something to offend her and not knowing how to proceed.  Simmons was now, incontrovertibly, one of his two favorite people, with her science rants and easy silences, the wrinkled noses and gleaming smiles, those hints of mischief she let slip through her careful bookishness.  He couldn’t quite believe how she seemed to have attached herself to him, picking him out not to taunt or ridicule, but to befriend him, to help improve his work, to carve out a pocket of home and set Fitz’s world aright.

 _Just look at her little face._   Even with the guilt of knowing he’d caused the stammer with his unfortunate choice of words, Simmons’ nervous haivering was one of the cutest things he’d ever seen.  A light blush had feathered its way over her collarbone, or perhaps her skin was still pink from the shower.  Combined with the way her damp hair was making that long-sleeved tee cling in a few strategic places, Fitz was forced to admit something he’d been trying to avoid since he’d gotten stuck staring at her photo during the fateful haircut -- Simmons was pretty.   _So, so pretty._   Beautiful, really.   _Okay, fine, twist my arm: Jemma Simmons is gorgeous_.

Which seemed incredibly unfair at the moment, given how she was steadfastly ignoring him, chewing on her sandwich and not really looking at the open notebook next to her.  Something Jonesy had said to him kicked its way up to the top of his thoughts -- _You ever wanna get jiggy with Spunky, you gotta jump on dat, son.  Ain’t a lotta time ‘fore she gon’ start askin’ you to babysit her plants while she bang some dude real quick._   As expected, Jonesy had altruistically shared several strategies for how to make things happen with girls, from the ubiquitous “stop bein’ a pussy” advice, to some flagrant double entendres, to simply pointing at his crotch area and letting her take the hint.  And while Fitz wasn’t sure he’d be following up on any of _those_ suggestions, he couldn’t help feeling as if he’d gone about this thing with Je-- _Simmons_ , all wrong.

A boa constrictor tightened around his waist in regret whenever he thought of the -- _totally justified, but_ \-- hurtful words he’d thrown at her in the past.  Fitz was so unaccustomed to having anyone want him near, so used to being victimized and rejected, so immersed in his loneliness -- _ever since Doug decided I wasn’t cool anymore_ \-- that even when he’d finally found someone to overlook his sandpaper and thorns, he’d wasted crucial hours second-guessing her intentions.  Maybe Jonesy was right, and he was running out of time.  Maybe instead of worrying, Fitz should have been thinking of how to get Simmons interested.   _Interested in what?_   That part was still fuzzy, but he’d figure it out.  

Fitz could sense his heartbeat picking up, like the low vibration of an approaching lorry on the highway.  Jonesy’s recommendation echoed through his mind -- _Just step up and plant one on ‘er, lil’ gangsta!_   This was so different from the last time he’d thought of kissing Simmons, that everything before her debut in his life felt like one long set by a particularly unfunny warm-up comedian.  Nine nights ago -- _Has it really only been that long?_ \-- the idea of being romantic had his guts weaving a cat’s cradle of reluctance.  This time, he felt encouraged.  

Simmons had asked him back to her room, gotten them both undressed and into night clothes, and made him the best damn meal he’d had outside of the British Isles.  As much as his stomach was tangled up in fishing line at the prospect that she might not feel the same, Fitz couldn’t stop himself from forming a reckless plan.  He’d never thought of himself as brave, but Fitz was a teenage boy, so no one could fault him for being rash.   _And it’s not like I’ve managed to push her away yet._  Fitz sucked in as much air as his lungs could hold, which, in in all fairness, given his slight build, wasn’t that much.

Simmons was padding over to him, hazel eyes almost iridescent in the evening lamplight.

“Finished with your plate?”  Those magnetic eyes, wide-set like an antelope’s, simultaneously drew him in and forced his vision away, terrifying him with their potential.  Fitz’s throat felt like a dryer sheet, and his Adam’s apple bobbed, trying to recover.

He grasped the plate and stood up to hand it to her, just as Simmons bent down to reach it herself.  Suddenly, they were inches apart, breath coming in and out like a silent tide, each taking up the other’s entire field of vision.  Simmons’ gasp was quick but discernible, and she glanced shyly down, biting her lip as she took hold of one edge of the thick glass plate, Fitz still gripping the other side.

The gift of having her face this close, his attention drawn to that berry-red mouth and the way it dipped under the tug and drag of porcelain white teeth, was all the excuse Fitz needed.  She was here, practically in his arms already.  There was no Herrick to interrupt, no classroom bell, no monkeys to distract from the liminal quiet of taking this leap together.  The time was ripe… and Fitz made his decision.

 

_Here goes nothin’._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm… thoughts?
> 
> Oh, and the pajama pants didn’t make it into this chapter either, but most of you guessed correctly that they are NOT a boyfriend’s.  So, that’s one (boring) mystery solved!


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

If, later that night, Simmons had been forced to testify , she couldn't have said exactly how it happened.

All she knew was that Fitz was looking at her with a smolder behind his dusky blues that made her chest pull a Baryshnikov and a Houdini all at once.   _And when did he get taller?_  That sapphire stare harpooned her, cutting into her consciousness with a ferocity that chased her into hiding.  Ill-equipped for the onrush of this daunting new Fitz, with his jaguar crouch and tractor-beam eyes, she reached for the plate in his hand, gripping it like a ripcord, willing herself not to look up.  What was he doing?   _What do_ _**I**_ _do?_

Then the dish was on the floor, glass shattering around her bare feet, and the fire alarm sirened its _woo-eep woo-eep_ as flashing lights from the hall created an epilepsy of confusion.  Fitz’s arms tightened around her rib cage, and for a breathless second Simmons thought he might keep her there, pressed against his shoulders, awash in that petrifying fever of metal and musk… until he hoisted her away and her feet landed free of the shards, sliding safe on the hardwood floor with an unsatisfying _tttthhhh_.  She scrambled into her shoes as she motioned for Fitz to hurry.

A minute later they were swept into the seamy current of human bodies channelling through the hall, flowing and eddying out the stairwell and onto the sloping lawn.  Simmons heard female voices grousing about “I was _right_ in the middle of this week’s Hollywood Stargazer” and “darn Sci-Tech nerds can’t keep their friggin’ science in the lab.”  A collective groan swelled from the dorm inhabitants when the first responders warned everyone to stay outside until they’d assessed the situation.

Almost the instant they’d left the building, Simmons cursed her appalling lack of layers.  Even with dry hair, she’d have been feeling the brisk autumn night, but as it stood, her teeth were chattering before campus police even finished their announcement.

“Cold?”  Fitz seemed to realize the idiocy of the question before the syllable was out, yanking off the borrowed sweater and offering it to her.  “Here.  It’s yours anyway.”

“Ab-bsolut-t-tely not.  You’ll f-f-freeze.”  She shivered, pushing it back into his hands.   _God, that’s toasty._

“Take it.  I’m still hot from bein’ in your bedroo-- er, I mean, I got very warm--” he pinched the spot above his nose and bunched his mouth shut.

“Th-thanks,” she conceded, mostly to stop him embarrassing himself with one of his stuttering rambles.   _There’s my awkward engineer._  At the return of sweet, safe, boyish Fitz, Simmons felt a flutter of relief, with something else thrumming at the edges.

The jumper helped, but now Fitz was standing there uncovered, bare arms crossed resolutely in front of him, sticking pale out of his white T-shirt like skinny aspen trees in the snow.   _He’ll get hypothermia if he keeps up that pretense._  Hardy Scotsman or not, no way could he ignore the chill, and she had an almost desperate instinct to snug him close.  Only the memory of that strange, animalistic look on his face kept her at bay.  She’d never seen Fitz like that, never expected it, and didn’t quite know how to react.  She wasn’t even entirely sure what he’d been thinking, only that it probably wasn’t “Hey, I finished the lab report.”

 _Time._  That’s what she needed.  Time, and a little distance, from which she could analyze this new development.  Well, marooned as they were here on the lawn, she had time in spades, but distance…

Fitz nudged Simmons’ shoulder with his own, leaning close to avoid being overheard.  “What’s going on over there?”  His breath on her ear made every hair across the nape of her neck stand and salute.  He tilted his head towards an altercation further down the hill, where campus security were questioning the apparent source of the fire.

“It’s all _his_ stupid fault!” a mousy, spectacled girl was explaining.  She gestured expansively at a rail-thin fellow with a Kangol hat, before addressing him directly.  “You and your junky gizmos that never work!”

“Screw you,” the lanky man shot back, looking extremely put out as he toyed with some kind of flattened copper coil.  “This worked fine at my place!  Maybe if you didn’t daisy-chain extension cords like they were paper clips, the shitty plug wouldn’t have sparked!”

Once again, Fitz was at her side, hushed tones prickling her skin into goosepimples more than the frigid weather.  “He’s right, y’know, about the outlets.  Faulty wiring at my dorm blew out Herrick’s TV.  You’d think they’d sort that, at S.H.I.E.L.D. of all places.”

 _Herrick seems to think_ _ **you**_ _broke it._  She kept that to herself.  “It doesn’t sound like either of them were being very safe.”

“Oh, c’mon, Simmons.  It’s just a little fire.  You can’t tell me you never caused an explosion or three at Uni.”  She pulled back so she could see his teasing smile.

“I most certainly did not,” she retorted primly.   _I like following the rules and doing what’s expected._  It had been her mantra all her life, even if Fitz was making her rethink that policy on occasion.  “I’m always very careful.  Can’t go setting off sparks in the lab.”

Fitz looked at her with raised brows, a small tug of his lips intimating at his response, when their focus was drawn back to the dorm supervisor.

“Okay, folks, nothin’ to worry about.  Go on back to your rooms.  Move along now.”

Shuffling feet cleared the lawn in a viscous slide of trudging grumbles.   _Fitz’ll have to leave._  In full sight of the resident advisors, it would take Special Ops to smuggle him back into her room.  And she didn’t _exactly_ want him to stay.  But with his departure looming, Simmons found herself distressed and wondering why, exactly, she’d wished for distance only minutes before.

The argument on the lawn was still going, a welcome distraction from her thoughts, and suddenly they heard a loud _thunk_.  The girl had taken the device from her careless partner and tossed it on the dewy grass.

“--not the only thing that’s busted, Chester!  You and me?  It’s over!”  She put spindly arms on his rib cage and shoved him bodily back.   _They’re breaking up?_  Simmons hadn’t realized they were together.  Interest piqued, Simmons decided even this horrid young woman could probably do better.

Chester stumbled backwards, looking furtively around before hissing in an unintelligible whisper.  She barked out an acid laugh.  “Okay, fine, ‘Chet’!” and grabbed the hat from his head, exposing premature baldness, shaking it at him like a gauntlet.  “And _this_ isn’t fooling anyone, Seth Rogaine.”  Chester jumped for the hat, but the girl threw it aside as they both erupted into profanities.   _Hmm, maybe she couldn’t do better._

Simmons’ ears twitched under a sudden wash of warmth and proximity, and she trembled.   _From the cold._  “Poor guy.  Just tryin’ to fit in, I bet.”   _What?_  Fitz was on the pyromaniac’s side?

The girl spun and stormed off, marching uphill to reenter the warmth of the building.  Chester stooped over, retrieving his invention.  “You’ll come crawling next time your car breaks down, Anita!” he shouted arrogantly after her.

“Good luck getting home _without_ my car, needledick!”

“Why would I go home, when I can booty call your mom!”

“My mom’s dead, ass-wipe!”  Simmons’ eyelids shot up in horror, but Anita’s mocking tone and Chester’s casual reaction made it clear she was simply making the world’s most offensive joke.

“Well that explains why she wasn’t moving around last night!”   _Second most offensive._

Anita flipped him off without turning and stalked out of earshot.  Simmons found herself instinctively disliking both of these people.

  
“Good grief, Fitz.”  She turned to him and realized how closely they were still standing.   _For the body heat, surely._ “That was vicious.  I’m glad that’s not us.”

Fitz angled towards her, an odd expression crossing his face.  “Of course not.  We’d never row like that; we’re…”   _Respectful.  Compatible!  Better together?_  “... not a couple.”

“Oh.  No.  Right!  Of course not.”  The icy air hit her like a Klondike bar when Fitz stepped away.  “Well, you’d best be off, they’re shooing everyone back in…”

“Yeah, that’s fine.  G’night, Simmons.”  Fitz was already looking past her, feet itching.

“Good night…”   _What is he doing?_

But Fitz’s attention had migrated to the hapless man now cross-legged on the grass, turning over his broken machine and muttering despondently, and he sprinted over to Chester and extended a hand to help him up.  The two chatted over the apparatus for a minute while Simmons bounced in place to keep her blood moving, growing more bewildered by the second and debating whether or not to wait.  But Fitz had evidently taken his leave, and the wind was relentless, and finally Simmons wandered her way back up to her dorm, sneaking glances back every few steps.  When she got to the main doors, Fitz and Chester were slapping each other on the back.  She sighed.

_Oh, Fitz._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don’t murder me!  *ducks*  At least this time Simmons noticed what was going on and didn’t just think Fitz was _tired_.
> 
> Thanks to amandajbruce on FF for the help. *sends cake* *the cake is a lie* *sends pie*
> 
> Happy Fitzsimmons week!  A whole _week_ dedicated to my OTP!  Bestill my freaking heart!  
>  I’d take a break from this fic to participate, but I think that would drive me crazy.  Instead, I’ll try to fit the prompts into my chapters somehow, so if you like, you can watch for those hidden messages. (Like tonight's prompt, "Stargazing"!)
> 
> I’m trying to get back into a nice pattern of daily updates, but no promises-- minor craziness at home is still going on.
> 
> Thanks for all your support so far!  Goooo Fitzsimmons!


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Fitz was rather proud of himself.   _Simmons said I should talk to people more._ He trumpeted a bit at the thought of how much he’d grown as a person, and subtly looked back to see if she was watching his display of munificence when he officially met Chet Lopehart and shook his hand.  She was.   _Like what you see, Simmons?_ Naturally, Fitz had nailed it earlier with the white-knight routine, lifting her out of harm’s way when the plate broke, then just _killing_ it with the jumper, even if he wasn’t sure it was worth the risk of frostbite claiming his... extremities.   _Well, mum would be proud._ Hell, even Jonesy would probably chest-bump him for this particular coup.  Yes, after this little show of largesse, he fully expected Simmons to find him irresistible.   _She’ll be putty in my hands when she hears what a social butterfly I’ve become._

And if he was being honest, it wasn’t often that Fitz had more going right in his life than a man several years older, but having just witnessed Chet get -- _let’s call a duck a duck_ \-- his arse handed to him by his ex-girlfriend, and the poor guy locked out and homeless for the night, Fitz was feeling not unlike Daddy Warbucks, compassion-wise.  Of course, it didn’t hurt that Chet had that nifty broken gadget in his hands.  Fitz never could resist playing around with a bit of scrap.   _Bonus points if it takes longer than ten minutes to puzzle out the fix._

The two men detoured to the engineering labs, got some terrible coffee from the dispenser, took over a table and set to work rebuilding Chet’s heating coil and some of his self-esteem.  Fitz reckoned this fellow wasn’t so bad, for all that he could be a bit caustic.  Sure, he’d said some harsh things -- Fitz knew how easy _that_ was -- and messed up his courtship with someone who, frankly, seemed awful to begin with.   _I’m sure glad Simmons isn’t awful.  Well, she’s awful pretty._  And true, Chet had started a fire, which was an honest mistake, even if he should have been more careful, but he wasn’t some sort of arsonist.  Fitz didn’t like to believe people were all bad, and he knew how heavy the burden of unappreciated genius lay.  It wasn’t so long ago that Fitz was being ostracized for his own mannerisms and looks.  Besides, Chet was keenly interested in Fitz’s ideas for his device, praising his insights and asking for more and more details, and somehow in the midst of talking shop they got on the subject of pranks.

Chet, as it turned out, was something of an authority on pranks.  He’d suffered the usual first-year torture, but because of his baldness and general demeanor, he’d continued to fall victim even into his third year, so he’d built up quite the handy repertoire of experience on the subject.  Fitz deferred to the man’s expertise, running through his current prank-war plans, and quizzing him for more suggestions, knowing that Simmons would want to throw everything they had into her quest for revenge.   _She’ll be ecstatic when she hears about this_.  Fitz crowed a bit at the thought of how Simmons would show her gratitude.   _Better stock up on breath mints._

By the time they’d finished talking and tinkering, it was 4 a.m. and Fitz knew within a 0.02% margin of error that he was going to be a zombie in Solomon’s lecture the next morning.  Wishing goodnight to the older student, Fitz nodded, pleased to have found a kindred soul.   _Well, not quite kindred, I mean…  I’m much better off than that guy.  I’ve got a glorious head of hair, I’m ace at maths… and I’ve got a girlfriend._  Fitz wasn’t exactly sure about that last part, but he was feeling good enough to make a few tiny assumptions.  Okay, maybe Simmons hadn’t said anything to him about it during the fire alarm hullaballoo.  Still, he was pretty sure that, if they hadn’t been interrupted, Jemma -- _I can call her that, now that she’s my special lady_ \-- would’ve been helplessly seduced by his come-hither poses.

Fitz might not have a lot of notches in his belt, but he figured, if his bedroom eyes hadn’t done the job, then offering himself up as a sacrificial icicle to the chivalry gods was more than enough to merit a wee reward.   _Yeah, ladies love that romantic stuff._  He was a regular Rudolph Valentino.  No question, Simmons would be seeing a lot more of this side of Leo Fitz.   _If she plays her cards right._  For starters, he’d be expecting plenty of sandwiches.   _We’ll work out the details in class tomorrow.  Simmons loves makin’ up rules for things._

That night, Fitz went to sleep and dreamed that he and Jemma were starring in a silent movie, running towards each other on a beach in slow motion while classical music crescendoed around them.  Beaches weren’t Fitz’s favorite spot -- perhaps his sunburn was affecting his subconscious, which was decidedly not fair -- but even if he was a bit too thin in his swim trunks, dream-Jemma didn’t seem to mind, and she was in a lab coat anyway, so if anyone looked silly, it damn well wasn’t him.  

The next morning Fitz dragged his leaden feet into class on a few hours of sleep, travel mug filled with stimulants and _doing no bloody good whatsoever, why can’t someone design a caffeinated drink that works, for God’s sake, it’s the 21st century_.  Maybe Jemma would be willing to alter the molecular composition of his tea leaves and coffee beans, to give them a tad more kapow.   _She ought to, anyway, since we’re datin’ and whatnot._  Of course, Fitz knew that he couldn’t just expect her to do all the work in this relationship.  It had to be a two-way street.  And as exhausted as he felt, he knew for a fact that girls liked to be shown a little tender appreciation, and Fitz was neither so tired nor so clueless that he would ignore his new girlfriend simply because he was a mite knackered.

So it was that, as he flopped bonelessly into his seat next to Jemma, Fitz congratulated himself on having the wherewithal to thread his long fingers through her delicate ones, catching her small hand up in his for a squeeze.  Tugging her closer as he leaned over the desk, Fitz offered his cheek for the kiss he was unmistakably due.

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

  
The look on Simmons’ face as she recoiled -- literally _recoiled_ \-- from his grasp was definitely not what Fitz had expected.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Fitz. Your "special lady"? Oof.
> 
> So was this "unexpected" enough for the prompt of the day?
> 
> Also - thanks, amandajbruce!


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

The look on Simmons’ face as she literally _recoiled_ from his grasp was definitely not what Fitz had expected.

 _No, no, no no no no._  Fitz had misread the moment.   _It’s like she doesn’t even want me holdin’ her hand!_  Fortunately, quick thinking and flawless aplomb had served him well in covering up this type of situation before.

“Yeah, erm, I was thinkin’... about,” _Got it!_ “your antibacterial sunlight torch, and I thought-- Morning Sunshine--  that’s a good name, don’t y’ agree?”

Simmons had tugged her hand away from his, but Fitz’s head was still angled over her desk… he tilted his face even further.  “And I was hopin’ you could see how that scar’s comin’ along on my ear?”

Whew.   _Mischief managed._  The division of Spec-Ops really was missing out.

Simmons eyed him narrowly.  “There isn’t much of a scar, Fitz.  I do wish you’d stop bringing up that horrible accident with the bird.”   _I’ve distracted her with guilt.  Nice._  “And this is hardly the place or time to ask me to ‘examine’ you.  Please, can you just--” she blew a small puff of air out of the side of her mouth, “be professional.  The lecture’s starting.”

“Yeah. Yep.  No problem.”  He knew he should be more embarrassed, but Fitz was just so pleased at his epically smooth save that he couldn’t find it in him to let Simmons’ annoyance through.  Not at the moment, anyway.  If the lack of sleep hadn’t turned him to jelly, the relief would’ve done for him, no question.  Fitz had very nearly tipped his hand, before playing it off like a high-roller in the World Series of Poker.   _The haggis was in the fire for sure._  And yet there hadn’t been any fallout, save for Simmons peering at him a bit suspiciously before turning back to her color-coded note-taking.

Masterfully covering his gaffe like that might make him feel, to borrow a word from Jonesy, like a pimp, but there was still the matter of Simmons’ apparent rejection. That had stung.   _Why wouldn’t she want to kiss me?  It was just my cheek, for Pete’s sake.  It’s not as if I exposed a nipple._  Perhaps… perhaps Fitz wasn’t nearly as lovable and kissable as he thought.  All this time, maybe he’d gotten spoiled by his mum and grandmother and their squishy-quick pecks to his face.

And Simmons’ little jab at his professionalism?   _Hmmph._  Well, that was no great surprise, not after she’d basically slapped him for calling her Jemma the night before.  Which really wasn’t his fault, not if he stopped to think about it.  She was the one who was touchy-feely, pawing all over him during that haircut, for instance.  And now she wanted to act like _he_ was inappropriate?   _That’s how she wants to play this?_  They’d see who could be more professional.  Fitz could be just as detached and clinical as anyone.   _See if I ever hold her hand again._  Her hand wasn’t even that great.   _I’m pretty sure I felt a hangnail.  
_

Fitz spent the rest of the class with fists balled up in his lap, steadfastly _not_ touching Simmons, and trying not to breathe very hard either, because she still smelled like snickerdoodles.

 

* * *

 

Jumpy as she was in the wake of Fitz’s odd behavior the night before, Simmons didn’t know _what_ to think when he grabbed her hand and stuck his head in her face.  Instinct took over as she jerked back, and it was a second before she could process his words.   _What?_  He was… talking about their next project?   _Ugh, and enough with the ear, already!_  Something still seemed a bit peculiar about the way Fitz was acting, as he settled back into his seat with an air of overschooled relaxation, and if she’d been feeling more confident, she might’ve pushed a bit.  But Simmons wasn’t sure she wanted to turn over any rocks to find out what was hiding underneath.  Which was remarkable on its own, because that was a big part of her job as a biologist.

Well, if he was going to pretend nothing was off, she could certainly join that party.   _The more, the merrier._  Though for the rest of class, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was incomplete, or lost, or lacking.   _Did I forget my keys?  My homework?_  Until she looked at her hand, remembering Fitz’s calloused palm on hers, and realized she missed the way his warmth had lingered on her skin.

It wasn’t exactly a welcome thought.  Could there be more between her and Fitz?  Shy, bumbling, underfed _Fitz_ ?  He certainly wasn’t what she would consider her “type” -- not that she’d had ample occasions to decide on one.  Simmons didn’t go in for all the screaming-at-boy-bands silliness that seemed to plague her dorm-mates and even, she was embarrassed to admit, her kid sister.  But she wasn’t _blind_ .  She appreciated a set of well-formed abdominal muscles as much as the next girl.   _And who doesn’t like a man tall enough to change light bulbs without a ladder?_

Not that any men like that had ever come up to her.  Simmons was well aware it was an issue of circumstance.  She’d never been around boys her own age, and the few she’d known were far too intimidated by her to try anything.  On the other hand, having once suffered through the unfortunate nickname “Jailbait,” she could understand why the men who’d been at her level academically, preferred not to ask her out.  Plus, anyone who was forward enough to openly ogle her -- like Jonesy, for instance -- was usually not the sort of person she’d be interested in.

But Fitz wasn’t old, or a dunce, or a creep.  She actually felt rather safe around him -- _most of the time, when he’s not attempting to channel Clive Owen_ \-- even if she couldn’t imagine actually going out with him.  And it wasn’t as if Fitz had ever expressed a tangible interest.  Just given her a few funny looks and grabbed her hand once.  Which he’d explained away.  And she knew how awkward he was, so she was probably just misinterpreting things.  It wasn’t like Simmons had years of practice identifying when people were interested in her.   _Well, that settles that._  She was undoubtedly worried -- _hopeful? no, worried_ \-- over nothing.

 _Okay._  She breathed out her nerves as the dismissal bell rang.   _There’s nothing to fret about._  If Fitz was interested in her like that, he would say something.  And if he did, she’d simply have to let him know she didn’t return the feeling.  Unless she did.   _Maybe._  Well, either way, she wasn’t going to risk their friendship by bringing it up without a very good reason.   _He’d most likely tell me to get over myself, anyway._  And they had, at minimum, a month of labs and lunches together to get through, so this was no time to be making things weird.

A few hours later, when Fitz met her at the cafeteria, she was feeling a bit more herself and had all but forgotten the strangeness from earlier.  All she wanted was to see her friend, have a nice meal and a chat, discuss their next move in the war on Jonesy, and maybe brainstorm a few more invention names.  For several minutes, it even seemed that Simmons would get her wish, until Fitz startled her by carrying on about that awful young man he’d met the night before.

“And Chet says we really ought to give these pranks some welly.  He’s got lots of ideas for how to--”

“What?”  Fitz had been talking to Chester about their private business?  “You told _him_ what we’ve been planning?  I thought this was meant to be anonymous!”

“C’mon, Simmons, lighten up.  I didn’t mention you by name.”

“You didn’t need to!  Excuse me if I don’t find the prospect of getting into trouble amusing.  And some of these,” she grabbed the schematics from his hands, “look downright dangerous.  I assume they were ‘Chet’s’ contribution?”  Fitz looked a bit struck at her accusing tone, which she couldn’t be bothered to temper right at the moment.  “Jonesy could be hurt.   _We_ could be hurt.  Or worse…”

He grinned as he finished the line, “... expelled.”  Fitz made pacifying gestures, unconcerned.  “Don’t worry so much, Simmons.  Chet’s a victim, same as us.  He wouldn’t steer us wrong.  He’s on our side.”

“Hmm,” she deadpanned.  Fitz was living in a fantasy world if he believed _that_.  Whatever side Chester was on, she didn’t care to stand there with him.  Perhaps it was the despicable way he’d spoken to his girlfriend, but Simmons couldn’t make herself sympathize with the man the way Fitz clearly seemed to have done.   _Oh, no._ She shouldn’t have been surprised that Fitz would befriend someone like that, an underdog, who possibly reminded Fitz of himself, but she needed to make sure this Chet didn’t get his hooks too far into _her_ best friend.   _It wouldn’t do to underestimate the power of the Dork Side_.  She approached this carefully.  “Fitz… I just… promise you’ll ask me before you bring him in on anything else, will you?”

His eyes betrayed him with a defiant flash.   _God._  The last thing she needed was for Fitz to think she was trying to control him.  She softened her tone and her eyes.  “When we decided to teach Jonesy a lesson, it was just supposed to be the two of us, teaming up, remember?”  She smiled, just the slightest curve of her lips.  This was difficult.  She needed to remind Fitz of their connection, the fact that he could trust her, without going overboard and leading him on.  “Do you really want Chet on this with us?  Wouldn’t he simply… be in the way?”  Fitz’s eyes locked onto hers.   _Oh, drat.  What if he thinks I’m flirting?  Do I sound like I’m flirting?_   _What does flirting sound like?_  “I only meant, the lab is so cramped already.”   _Ugh._  Bringing up their close quarters was hardly making things better.  She sighed.

“Yeah, okay.  That’s fine.  You and me, yeah?”  Fitz stood up to bus the table and gave her shoulder a quick squeeze before balancing her tray on top of his.   _Such a gentleman._  She really couldn’t understand how he was willing to pick up after himself so thoroughly in these public spaces, but not in his own rooms.  Simmons would have flipped her lid if her dorm had looked like Fitz’s.  Except for the lab, where a bit of alien goo or a dripping 084 could be positively thrilling, Simmons liked for things to be clean.  She needed everything organized.  Neat.  Predictable.

And these little moments, like Fitz’s hand on her shoulder, kept making things messy.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [lilyhandmaiden](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyhandmaiden/pseuds/lilyhandmaiden) for the wonderful gift of my new favorite expression, “The haggis is in the fire for sure.” Also, if you want to read a how-they-met story that puts mine to shame, check out We Finish Each Other’s…  
> Not one but two Harry Potter references! I’d say that fits the “fantasy” prompt, wouldn’t you? There’s a “prompt drop” in there too, for you sticklers.  
> As usual, thanks to amandajbruce on FF. *running out of flour* *no baked goods* *sends flower*


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.
> 
> Axe Body Spray is Lynx in the UK.

Over the next several days, Simmons amiably indulged Fitz’s illusions the that he was in charge of the plotting against Jonesy, and even allowed him to include a few schemes that she might once have considered an eensy bit mean.   _Jonesy’s a big boy._  And Fitz felt that it was only fair, since Simmons was letting him captain this superpranker, to take on the lion’s share of the work, even if it meant a couple of disagreeable afternoons getting schooled in proper bro-tocol by his new Bro-bi Wan Kenobi.

  
-o-

  
“Spam?  You’re signing Jonesy up for spam?”

“Well you’re the one that spoiled our best ideas by blabbing about them to Chester.”

“Even so, that’s hardly original, Simmons.  Aren’t you the one who’s always goin’ on about takin’ pride in your work?”

“Not just any spam, Fitz.   Besides, sending daily Cat Facts to his phone and filling his email with My Little Pony Fan Club updates is still better than that Macho Man hooey.”

* * *

 

 

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!”  Fitz muttered urgently as he fiddled with a tiny electronic device he was wiring into the bowels of Jonesy’s car.  “Simmons!  He doesn’t spend _that_ long tanning.  How’re you comin’ with the Pee-Shooter?”

“I told you we’re not calling it that,” she chastised, her voice muffled as she crept around the bucket seats, saturating the upholstery.  “It’s simply a chemical spray that responds to heat and pressure by creating the _sensation_ of wetness and mimicking the _smell_ of wee.”  It was a genius concept, one that Fitz was secretly very proud of her for.  The best part was that the effect only lasted as long as the trigger, so if Jonesy took his bum off the seat to check for a wet spot, the evidence would fade within a second.  “And very little actual urine was involved,” she finished stiffly.  
“Tell that to the enormous jar of squirrel piss you left in the lab.  Next to my tea!”  He jabbed at the air accusingly, finally meeting her eyes as he squirmed out from under the driver’s-side console.  “ _Right_ next to my tea.  You’ve got to be more careful, Simmons.  What if I’d mixed them up?”

She rolled her eyes.  “If you somehow managed to confuse your mug of tea with a sealed specimen jar of urine, I think drinking it might be the least of your worries.”

 _Hmmph._  She clearly needed to sort out her priorities.  It wasn’t safe, putting those germy bio-samples all over their workspace like that.  “Well you shouldn’t have left it so close to my station.”

“It’s still my lab, Fitz.  When we work in the engineering building, you can have a say where I put my pee.”  She flushed when the sound of her own words reached her ears.   _Didn’t mean to say_ _ **that**_ _, now, did you, Little Miss Professional Demeanor?_  Fitz’s face took on a gleeful cast.  He loved seeing her completely flustered, and was going to take full advantage.  His mouth opened almost instantly, the possibilities for mockery running through his head.

 _Beep beep beep._  The small alert on the tracker device let them know Jonesy was on the move.  Fitz scrambled to exit the car, opening the door and helping to pull Simmons out.

“He thinks I’m inside, I’ve got to--”

“Go!  I’ll make certain we haven’t left anything.  And you’re sure the randomizer you put in will periodically turn on his check-engine light and set off his refuelling ping?”

“Sure as shootin’!”  Fitz used one of Herrick’s expressions as he cocked an imaginary finger-gun at Simmons, earning him a wry look and a nervous “get going” hand gesture.

Fitz just barely had time to nonchalantly meet Jonesy outside his tanning booth.  He thanked whatever narcissistic impulse kept Jonesy in there for so long after he left the tanning bed -- presumably, the older cadet needed a few minutes to admire his nude form before “ruining” his appearance with extra clothing.  Jonesy had told him that the painstaking amount of time he spent on his body was like restoring a priceless piece of art.   _Yeah, sure.  He’s a regular Bro-na Lisa._

“Sup.”  Fitz ran a hand casually through his short curls, controlling his breathing so it would seem like he’d been laying still for the past quarter hour.

“Bro, did you screw it up _again_?  Duuude.  Stop with the SPF 50; you’re _supposed_ to let the light through!  Damn, son!  You stupid!”

 

* * *

 

Simmons picked along the cinder-block wall, dodging dumbbell racks and medicine balls and rolled-up yoga mats, until she arrived at a sturdy metal shelving unit covered in gym bags.   _Black nylon with highlighter yellow straps.  Black nylon with highlighter yellow straps._  She had to be quick about this.  Across the room, Fitz had distracted Jonesy by pretending -- _very convincingly at that_ \-- that he didn’t know the first thing about how to set up the weights on the shoulder press machine, but with all these mirrors around, all it would take was a minute to ruin their whole scheme.   _Found it!_  Tugging the zipper open, Simmons held her breath and rummaged through Jonesy’s spare clothes, his -- _eww_ \-- satin thong underwear and bottles of creatine gummy bears, until she felt the smooth metal cylinder of body spray.  Replacing it quickly with a duplicate filled with old-lady perfume, she took an extra minute to swab the inside of Jonesy’s shower shoes, from which to build a culture.   _We’ll see how “swiggity fresh” he smells when everything stinks like his own feet.  He’ll never trace that back to us._  Simmons had spent an entire evening surrounded by a miasma of stink, thanks to that charver, and she intended to pay him back in kind.

She turned, right hand clutching the Q-tip in its tiny vial, can of Axe in the left, and nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw a beefy, swarthy, shirtless man standing not two feet away.  He was somewhat blocking her path of escape, but thankfully, also hid her from Jonesy’s line of sight.

“Ah!  Erm, hello, there… mister… symmetrical…” she managed, cheeks exploding into color at the glistening sweat trickling freely down his chiseled pectorals.  He wasn’t tall, just about Fitz’s height, but he was broad enough to compensate _very_ well.  “I was just…” she tucked the bio-sample into her pocket and glanced at the deodorant spray, “looking for this!”  She held up the canister.  “It’s…” _Don’t panic.  Just make something up!  Anything!_ “My newest product!  Yes…” she smiled a too-wide smile.   _He’s looking at you like you’re crazy.  Stop looking crazy._  “I design and sell this fine product.  I am indeed!  The official… Axe… representative.  We’re very, er, interested in your… business.”   _Why did I just stare at his shorts?  Oh God, that was downright slutty!_  She wanted the floor to swallow her.

“Uh-huh.”  His eyes were a bit shifty, looking around her at the bag.   _He’s onto me! Focus, Jemma!_

“Yes, I just adore the stuff!  Mmmm!”  She sprayed a liberal amount of the heady scent on her shirt, trying not to gag.  “Doesn’t everyone?”  She doused him with it from sculpted shoulder to washboard ab.  He squinted.

“Hey, lady!  Keep that away from me, willya?”  He tried to sidestep around her and reached for his own bag, the combination of Axe and body odor and naked man making Simmons’ head swim.

“Right!  No problem at all… I’ll just go to… _not_ here.”  She ducked under his outstretched arm and sped out of there as quickly as her feet would take her.

Later, as she scrubbed her blouse in the sink and tried to rid it of the douchey stigma of Axe body spray, she would feel a tiny bit offended at being called ‘lady’ in that tone.  However, recalling the man's glistening olive skin, the way his muscles corded underneath like coiled steel cables, and the fact that the whole gym was replete with similarly rippling bare-chested displays, she also hoped she might be drawn along there again.   _For more bad-girl shenanigans._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Cat Facts prank is from reddit.  I figured, the prompt is "stupidity" so why not let them do a few stupid pranks?  
> There was also a Ron moment to go with the Hermione moment from the last chapter.  Love me some Ron & Hermione.  
> Huh. You know, it didn’t even occur to me until after I posted this that it might read canon-divergent, but hold your horses, because what’s said in the episode is that they never got to pull any *freshman* pranks, as in, pranks on *freshmen* -- it said nothing about them never getting to prank an upper-classman. Well, you can argue with it if you like, but I’m tryin’ here, guys.
> 
> Thanks to bigdamhero for reminding me to include a badly-lying Jemma into this.  High jinks galore!  
> Thanks to amandajbruce on FF for all her help.  You’re good people!  
> Thanks to starbrightnights for whatever.  You’re funny.  I like funny.  
> *opens oven*  Oooh, peppermint-chip brownies!  You guys are getting spoiled.  *slides over the pan*


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

Fitz woke up in a sweat.

It had started as _that_ kind of dream, the recurring one in black-and-white, him and Jemma at the seaside.  In this one, she’d doffed her lab coat and a bit of her strict scientific deportment, showing off one of those old-timey striped one-piece suits, and out of nowhere she had a monkey draped around her neck, and she was laughing and splashing in the tide, and Fitz thought his face was going to get a cramp from smiling.  He couldn’t even feel his sunburn anymore, couldn’t feel anything besides the light strumming in his chest that meant his heart still worked and everything was warm and playful and perfect.

Odd, because the beach normally wouldn’t have been his first choice for a tryst -- _sand all up in m’ nethers, who needs that_ \--  and there’d be salt in his eyes, not to mention he wasn’t a very strong swimmer, and what about sharks, and krakens… _and jellyfish_.  He’d have to pee on Jemma if she got stung, and that simply didn’t sit right with Fitz.  Not until they’d gotten much more comfortable with each other.   _Or better yet, not ever._  Well, he’d do it if she got stung, but he wouldn’t want to.   _I’d never hear the end of it from mum._ He was a gentleman, he shouldn’t have to pee on people.   _And oh Christ, what if I’ve had asparagus?_  Suddenly his eyes were open and his breath was coming in fast and his sheets were slightly damp -- _with sweat_ \-- he was infinitely relieved to discover, only with perspiration, nothing more disgusting.   _Whew._  He was honestly a little proud of that.

But the nightmare threw him off a bit throughout the day, even while he wandered through the dorm with his toolbox and repaired Jonesy’s handiwork, pillaging the gubbins for nuts and bolts as he went.  He looked forward to the evening, when he’d see Simmons at the lab and they could work out the last kinks in their final stage of Operation “Jonesin’ for Revenge.”  They’d come up with the crowning piece to their slow reign of terror -- a bit of cutting-edge microrobotics that used speech recognition to listen for the word “bro”, then sent out an undetectable pulse to constrict Jonesy’s lower intestine, making him break wind.  Fitz had already thought of several names for the invention -- The Fart Murmur, The Gassassin, Arse Poetica, or simply, The Cheese Knife -- none of which Simmons had approved.   _Which is ridiculous, because they’re all vibranium-level quality._

Her disapproval might have more to do with her going all soft and cautious -- _right when we’re in the final lap, too_ \-- telling him it could have dangerous applications, and why was he always so set on creating weapons, and going off promptly on one of her little ethical science rants that always seemed to end with them both defensive.  It wasn’t that Fitz loved violence -- he didn’t -- or even guns _per se_ , but he did enjoy target practice -- perfecting his aim, knowing this was one skill he could rival the Ops guys at -- and the impractical paralytic bullets Simmons had suggested they develop wouldn’t be any good at the shooting range.

Still, the more time he spent with Simmons, the more her tenderhearted nature didn’t seem annoying so much as endearing.   _And she’s so safety-conscious, that one._  He supposed it was a good thing.  In the end, Fitz had appeased her by offering to test the -- _the Flabbergaster?_ \-- on himself, to prove that it was perfectly harmless.  And to sweeten the pot, he was even willing to turn off those Macho Man snippets she seemed to have such a problem with.  He’d have to snag Jonesy’s phone to install the new device anyway -- it was an ideal place to hide such a thing, with the microphone ready-built -- and Fitz didn’t mind disabling the pop song.  Although he had to admit, during his recent afternoon with Jonesy, they’d both been fist pumping a bit at the catchy tune.

Things in the lab had been very relaxed that evening, as well, and Fitz was content to putter around, listening to the Zakadels’ quiet chittering and the _clink-whirr-dub_ of his partner synthesizing new compounds.  Since he and Simmons had all but finished the drones (the only thing left was testing them out officially in the aerospace lab’s wind tunnel) tonight had been spent mainly on various catch-up projects, and even getting a head start on others, such as the Morning Sunshine.  Simmons had ended up using the name he’d stumbled into during an awkward moment of social rejection, but surprisingly, it didn’t make Fitz like the machine any less.  He’d taken a couple of days to get over the shock of his hand and cheek being so flatly denied, and understood now that Simmons was far too important to view in that shallow, physical way.

Here was a person who was stimulating mentally and easygoing emotionally, and he discovered he didn’t really _need_ her to be available romantically.  Yes, she was pretty -- _pretty stunning_ \-- and he wouldn’t say no if that’s what she wanted, but there were attractive women all over campus.  Just the other day, Jonesy had given Fitz some advice about how to escape “the friendzone” and get Simmons “all up on his junk,” only to chase that counsel with a caveat -- _You gots to play the field, homeslice.  Can’t let some hunny tie you down.  Hit it and quit it, Edinbro._ That one was so much closer than he usually got to cleverness, Fitz hadn't had the heart to tell him he'd gotten the city wrong.  

Fitz didn’t know if the friendzone was real, despite what he’d overheard a couple of past classmates muttering resentfully into their neck beards.  But he did know that if such a thing existed, then his was mostly vacant.   _Like a Scottish tip jar._  He couldn’t afford to alienate a girl like Simmons.  She was one of a kind.   _One of my kind._  And so very kind as well.  Jonesy might have a valid point about Fitz needing to date around, to get his bearings and build up his confidence -- _I think that’s what he meant, anyway, it was hard to tell around the misogyny_ \-- but Simmons wasn’t a girl you practiced on, she was the girl you practiced _for_.

And right now, he had an idea for making her smile.  “Simmons?”  He took something out of his tech case and placed it on the table.

“Mmm?  What have you got there?”

“Oh, you mean this little marvel?”  He threaded his fingers together and stretched his palms outward.  “I was thinkin’ on the applications for the Morning Sunshine, and well -- you designed it as a medical tool, yeah?  But,” he moved around the table, holding the object closer, “it _could_ be the next big quality-of-life gadget.  See, if we market it as a replacement for the toothbrush,” he put the retainer-like device in his mouth and pushed a button to release the flash, then removed it, “I’d wager that within five years, every field agent short on time or clean water’s gonna be packin’ one of these beauties in their away-kit.”

“Fitz, that’s ingenious!”  She took the mechanism from his hands, not appearing to care that his spit was all over it.   _Hmm…_ “It’s anti-microbial, so it’ll get rid of sour breath and germs, but beyond that, the _bleaching_ properties of sunlight mean it’s also--”

“A tooth-whitener!  I know!”  Fitz smiled wide, pulling his lips out and showing as many teeth as possible, so she could check the invention’s effectiveness if she liked.   _We really do work better together._  No wonder Simmons seemed to value their professional relationship over any other kind.  She laughed at his too-broad grin, “You’ve been around the monkeys so long you’re starting to look like them.”  Fitz put his hands up to his ears, wiggling them front and back, and scratched his head, trying to elicit another of those big, beaming Jemma-smiles.  If necessary, he thought, he could live on her laughter and never touch another sandwich again.

Wrapped in the lackadaisical hammock of Simmons’ approval, Fitz was feeling only mild trepidation when the time came to test out the GasLight.  He knew that she would be right there for him if anything bad did happen.   _Not that it will.  We’ve run the numbers a dozen times._  And while he wasn’t all too keen on the prospect of passing gas in front of Simmons, considering she’d spent an entire evening around him smelling like old eggs -- _which is_ _ **why**_ _we’re doin’ this, after all_ \-- he guessed they’d be even now.   _That’s important in a partnership._  Balance. Fifty-fifty.   _Or in this case, maybe sixty-farty._

Taking a deep breath, Fitz took up the tiny EMP-like device and looked at Simmons.  “Okay.  Ready to test the Private Tooter?”  She gave him a flat look.  “The Fart-Attack?”  Her face was getting stormy.  “We don’t have to decide today.  ‘S not like we’re trying to get credit for this anyway.”

Fitz motioned his friend away towards the door, while he retreated farther into the room.  “Simmons, you’ll want to stand back.  I don’t want you getting ‘wind’ of this.”

Her groan was outdone by her chuckle.  “My hero,” she teased, “saving me from a bit of methane.”  But she swept her palms forward to give him the go-ahead.

“Okay, this is for all the marbles.  Three… two… one… blastoff!”  He leaned forward and very carefully enunciated, “Bro.”

Fitz felt a sudden discomfort in the bottom of his stomach and seconds later heard his body squeezing out the pressure.  It was a drawn-out, mostly voiceless sound that still managed to go up like a question towards the end.   _Pppffftthhhee…?_  He turned slightly pink, despite having known that this would happen, and fanned the air around him, almost hula-hula style.  But he felt no other ill effects.

 

“It worked!”  He beamed at her from across the lab, and took big, bouncing steps in her direction, spurred by the promise of  a high five.  “See, I told you it would all be perfec--”

“Fitz.”  Simmons was staring behind him, eyes and skin growing white.  “Fitz!”

He turned to see Pacino, one hand pressed to the side of his head, the other curled in a jagged claw and swinging wildly around him.  As Fitz and Simmons watched, at sixes and sevens with the scene before them, Pacino howled a demonic, foreign scream and hurled himself at the other monkeys.  The Zakadels scrambled, scuffled, and fled, while Fitz leapt his way back to the cage, tripping over his own feet and caroming off the countertop to propel himself forward faster.  He wasn't quite fast enough.  Pacino was contorted, strength seemingly tripled, out of his mind with rage and fear.  It gave him too much of an advantage, and tonight, it meant that a murderously shrieking Pacino easily overpowered the smallest and the youngest of the group.  

 

He had Sweet Pea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this nightmare prompt, am I right?  
> Thanks to amandajoyce118 for all her awesomeness and especially her onomatopoeia, and starbrightnights for not punching me for that dig at Scottish people’s tipping habits.  Maybe we should just count that towards tomorrow’s “stereotype” prompt and call it a day.
> 
> I’m very bad at estimating, but gun to my head, I’d guess there are only about five chapters left!  It’s been quite a ride, y’all.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

Simmons watched stricken as Fitz, heedless of the scrape and bruise he would incur, shoved most of his left forearm through the cage bars and grasped Pacino by the scruff of his back.  The crazed monkey twisted out of the sloppy grip, but released a whimpering Sweet Pea and sank his teeth and nails into the meat just above Fitz’s wrist.  Her lab partner’s forceful intake of breath cut through the room as he hissed in agony.  His voice was strangled.  “Simmons!”

She was frozen.  She’d never prepared for this.  Why had Pacino flown off the handle?  It was clear _when_ it happened; she’d seen the change come over him immediately after Fitz tested the surge -- the Zakadel’s jaw going slack before morphing his simian face into a Halloween mask.  What dumbfounded her was that, in her own lab, she didn’t know what was inside Pacino to make him react that way.

 _Oh, no, no no!_  Fitz’s face was crunched in pain, pinpricks of blood starting to pool where Pacino had hooked into him.  He gasped jaggedly, his voice barely carrying, and she could have sworn she misunderstood the message.   _Did he really say…_

“Simmons-- the-- the gun!”

Her eyes flew to the tech table.  Fitz’s prototypes were there, strewn about as usual.   _Could he mean…_ She didn’t know if it would glitch, or even if was loaded, but her friend’s cries were becoming too much.  Simmons’ hands had gone up to her neck, on both sides of her jaw as she shook under the weight of indecision.  She picked up the heavy, unfinished pistol.  “Fitz!  It’s going to be okay!”

 

* * *

 

Fitz watched through slitted, burning eyes as Simmons picked up his highly dangerous _working_ Advanced Weaponry prototype, disbelief coursing through him as much as adrenaline.  “Not-- _that_ ,” he choked out.  “The tranq gun!”

She dropped the pistol like a snapping piranha.  “We don’t _have_ \-- we use injections!”  Her eyes were beginning to fill, and she hurried to a drawer, rummaging frantically through a heap of disposable syringes.  “Empty… Fitz!  There’s no sedative!  It’s gone!”

Pacino was biting at Fitz’s extensor muscle, sharp fingers digging into his elbow and palm, bracketing rabid fangs.  “How can you not-- aaaarggggh!” Fitz grimaced, his nerves on fire as a spasm stabbed up his arm to his shoulder blade, forcing his neck to hunch and lock up.  He roared in frustration.  “--have a contingency plan!”

“Found it!”  She grabbed a syringe and spun towards the cages, clutching a small bottle.  Within seconds she was in front of Fitz, sticking her own slender arm into the cage.  “Just hold on a little longer…”  She drove the needle into Pacino’s leg and depressed the plunger before extracting her hand in the space of a heartbeat.

“Fitz…” she grabbed the cane-like rod that sat next to the cage, the one she’d used to sweep his phone out on that first night, seemingly a lifetime ago.  Pushing it through the slats, she used the curved section to press gently against Pacino’s torso, although at that point the Zakadel’s aggression was already starting to flag.  His head lolled against his chest, his little hands twitched and released Fitz’s arm, and the traumatized monkey flopped over in a shivering heap, his haphazard convulsions growing weaker as the drug took over.

Fitz dragged his arm back through the steel bars, wincing and trying his best not to voice the torture filling his entire side.

“God, Fitz… I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”   _Sorry for what?_  None of this was her fault.  Simmons was trembling, voice cracking and eyes brimming, but she inhaled deeply and brought herself under control.  Her hands, however, had remained steady throughout.   _Look at that._  Simmons, if she wanted to, would make a great field agent someday.

“Rinse your arm off.  Keep it elevated.”  Fitz was two steps ahead of her, the cool water blessing him with its distraction as he watched Simmons in action mode.  She had the uncanny ability to press on,  even while toeing at the cliff face of shock.  Simmons scrabbled around inside a cabinet until she produced a much-used key ring, which opened the padlock on the Zakadel cage.  Pulling on extra-thick black rubber gloves, she slid open a small square in the front of the enclosure and reached in, lifting out the unconscious Pacino.

“What do you need me to do?”  Fitz’s arm was a stinging misery, but he set his mouth in a line and turned to his partner, ready to help with the extraction.   _If she can keep goin’, so can I._  And they definitely should sort out the monkeys first, make sure they could isolate Pacino before he woke up and had a chance to keep fighting.

“Just open th-the hatch on that one,” she hiccupped -- _so maybe she’s not fine_ \-- pointing to the smaller cage where Pacino had been contained after his surgery.  She placed the limp creature inside before swiping her sleeve across her eyes.  “I should check over the small one, too, in case she’s hurt.  Unless you need me--”

“No, take care of Sweet Pea.  I can wait.”  He gritted the words out.  “Just tell me how to help.”   _I need a task._  He thought he might go off the deep end unless he had something to focus on.

Simmons seemed to understand.  “The first aid kit -- it’s on the wall by the door.”

“Got it.”

Simmons picked Sweet Pea up in her gloved hands.  “Shh… shh… it’s all right…”  Her quiet, reassuring clucks didn’t much calm the little female, who was still shaking like a rickshaw and gibbering out tiny sobs.  “This doesn’t look too bad,” she declared finally.  “I think he just scared her, maybe some bruising.  But I’m not a vet…”  Simmons put Sweet Pea back in the Zakadel cage, where she was immediately surrounded by her two friends in a protective, hugging pile-up.  She started to replace the padlock.

“Wait, wait, hang on.”  Fitz retrieved Pacino’s towel cape, then draped it across the sleeping monkey.  “Now you can lock up.”  Simmons, if anything, looked more on the verge of tears than before.    _Oh, don’t do that._  If there was one thing Fitz did not want to have to worry about at the moment, it was rule-loving Simmons crying because he hadn’t thought to put a glove on before sticking his good hand back into the cage.

“Hey, hey now.  It’s okay.  See?”  He showed her his uninjured arm.  “No problem.”

She was shivering, words coming out cracked and raw.  “That’s not-- Fitz, we need to get you to the infirmary.”  She gingerly plucked at his left hand and brought it across her body, looking over the damage.  The skin was already turning purple around the puncture marks, angry whitish splotches contrasting with deep red along the rest of his forearm.

“No!  Simmons, not the infirmary.  They’ll want to know what happened.”   _And they’ll put Pacino down, or open up his brain and dig around and_ _ **then**_ _put him down._

“I know.”  She took a deep, ragged breath.  “I’ll most likely never be allowed in a lab again, and possibly be expelled, but we have to get you checked out by a proper doctor.  That monkey could have been infected--”

“But we don’t know that!”  He had to get through to her; his Zakadel friend’s life was on the line.  “Simmons, it’s Kibbles and Bits we need to talk to.  They’ve been keepin’ somethin’ from you, that’s clear enough.”   _This isn’t just brain activity sensors._  They’d done something to his little monkey head.  “And I don’t think he does, but if Pacino’s got some strange disease, they’re the ones who can help.  They owe you a favor, yeah?”

She looked at him, fear and worry and guilt and duty skirmishing across her face.  She was chewing at her bottom lip, but unlike the last time, it wasn’t comely.  Rather, the combination of her tremulous jaw and red-rimmed eyes made Fitz’s insides wrench to see her so upset.  If possible, it hurt worse than the pangs he was already feeling.   _Ow.  My arm._  Simmons was still holding onto his elbow and wrist, carefully palpating at the swelling skin.

“Look,” he wiggled his fingers to show he could.  “Hey, ’s not that bad.  Just needs a bit of alcohol and a bandage, right?  You can do that.  Please?  At least while we’re decidin’?”

Sniffling, Simmons nodded microscopically and set to work cleaning and wrapping the affected areas.  Something she’d said a minute before finally caught up to Fitz.  “And what’s this about you not bein’ allowed back in the lab?  It’s me they’ll be kickin’ out.  This is on me, Simmons.  I won’t have you takin’ the blame.”

She swallowed heavily.  “No, if I hadn’t pushed you to prank Jonesy in the first place none of this would’ve… it’s my name on the sign-up form for the lab.  This happened on my watch.”

“Don’t be daft.  I’ve been in charge of the pranks since the start, so don’t go takin’ on responsibility that doesn’t belong to y’.  And you couldn’t have known this would happen.  Hell, if I’d just listened to you and kept to our own ideas instead of usin’ Chet’s design…”   _Oh, crap.  I shouldn’t have said that.  I should_ _ **not**_ _have said that._  Simmons didn’t know -- _well, didn’t know before_ \-- that the wireless pulse was based off one of Chet’s schematics, though the original concept was much harsher, intended to produce migraines.  He suddenly felt a spike of anger towards the older Sci-Tech cadet.  Why was he building a migraine machine anyway?  Fitz understood the desire to retaliate against bullies, but if what had happened today was any indication, the path of violence and revenge could only end in darkness.

“But I was useless earlier, Fitz!  I can’t believe I grabbed your gun.  What was I _thinking?_  What if I’d--”

“Don’t think about that.  Something terrible _might_ have happened.  But it didn’t.”  Fitz couldn’t listen to Simmons berate herself anymore.  Watching her get worked up over the idea of losing her spot at the Academy; the fact that he’d pushed her out of her comfort zone by asking her to ignore standard procedure for an accident report; the throbbing from his wounded arm rivalling the hurt in her eyes as she methodically applied gauze and pressure and tape; it all conspired to hollow out his heart on a night when his insides were already full of holes.  “You’ve been right about everythin’.  I’m the one who was too stubborn for my own good.”

She finished her doctoring, and the realization that there was no immediate emergency to deal with seemed to break something inside her, crumpling her shoulders like kite paper and shrinking down her svelte frame.  Fitz hesitated a moment before reaching for her, unsure if the gesture would be welcome, not certain where exactly to commit his hands, but discovered that the act of drawing Simmons to him felt as natural as the gravity between a planet and its moon.  She folded into his embrace, sobbing messily against his shoulder, her narrow fingers clutching at the chest pockets of his new plaid button-up while he soothed elliptical orbits onto her back.

It wasn’t her fault.   _She did pick up the gun though._  Fitz understood now what Simmons had been telling him -- sometimes, in a crisis, people went for whatever was closest, and didn’t pause to think of the consequences.  If Simmons, the least violent and most rational person he knew, could pick up a gun in the heat of the moment, clearly it could happen to anyone.   _If I hadn’t stopped her…_ “Tomorrow, let’s start sketchin’ out that dendrotoxin rifle you dreamed up.  Okay?”  He wished it hadn’t taken something like this to open his eyes, but he was a smart guy.  He knew who his friends were now.  He knew who to trust.  And Leo Fitz learned from his mistakes.

 

* * *

 

Through the ordeal, Simmons had been quite abashed by her lack of self-control.   _You stop that, Jemma!  You are not some stereotypical damsel in distress, and you will not break down in front of Fitz!_  If either of them had a reason to splinter at the edges, it was him, anyway, after he’d made himself a human shield to save the Zakadels.   _His arm…_ what if Fitz lost movement in his hand?  She wanted to yell at him for being so foolish, for risking his dexterity, but that was Fitz.  Idiotically brave, even when it meant taking a beating he couldn’t afford.  Simmons didn’t know how she had possibly ever seen him as anything else, roiled at the thought that she’d once compared this selfless boy to a stray animal or -- _what kind of person thinks this way?_ \-- a project to take on.

In the midst of that self-flagellation, there were other, more relevant points of shame.  The steel weight of her guilt for this particular fiasco -- _I should've seen he was too close to the cages, should’ve fought harder against that last prank… God, I don’t know how to shoot a gun, what if I’d shot Fitz!_ \-- kept her from falling apart while there were fires that needed dousing, but once her hands stilled, and she was confronted by the cactus racking up her throat, and the cold-pasta quivering in her legs, any composure fled entirely.  The mortification of crying only made the tears worse, and Simmons hunched in on herself, eyes and nose spewing a decidedly unladylike cocktail of sorrow.  It was only when she felt Fitz’s hand drop onto her shoulder, tugging her into _his_ space to give _her_ comfort, that she felt herself shatter.

Simmons knew that she was fortunate to have grown up the way she had, to have had siblings to play with and parents who encouraged her academic whims.  She’d always felt fortunate, always been thankful.  But heaving and sputtering into Fitz’s neck, hands grappling at his shirt, feeling her paroxysms melt under the smooth circles he’d patterned across her back, it was the first time Simmons had felt _lucky_.  Fitz was a flower among weeds, a golden ticket in a Wonka bar, and for some reason she’d been the one to find him.   _Well then, finders, keepers._

The truth of Fitz’s warm cheek against her forehead made her want to stay safe within the closed loop of his arms forever, where she was free to collect the pieces of herself, to stack and mortar the bricks she needed to feel solid again.  
“Tomorrow, let’s start sketchin’ out that dendrotoxin rifle you dreamed up.  Okay?”  Fitz’s unexpected question, soft as it was, burst through the blue and dislodged a fresh wave of tears as she nodded into his collar.  She knew this proximity was abnormal for him, she knew it wasn’t like Fitz to pet and comfort, yet here he was, her foothold in a waterfall, and now, of all the things he could say…

She didn’t know what was going through Fitz’s head, the only motif in her own insisting that whatever he wanted, in that moment, was his.   _Anything._  She would call in every favor, every connection, every dirty trick she knew.  She would own responsibility for tonight’s catastrophe in front of S.H.I.E.L.D., or wring answers from Kibbles and Bits, or steal their research and get the facts for herself.  She would take him to hospital, or find a discreet med student, or bloody well synthesize the drugs to take care of his injuries.  She’d keep those monkeys alive and out of trouble, if she could, for as long as she could.  She would protect her best friend, her surrogate family away from home -- no matter what it took to guard his sweetness and vulnerability.   _Anything, and everything._  A memory crashed into her, Fitz tucking a blanket around that wretched creature minutes after his vicious attack, and the cracks in her heart exploded, saturating her body with gratitude and serendipity and awe.  In the residue of the blast, in the ringing silence and floating dust, one simple notion remained.

 

_I should get him a present._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to amandajoyce118 for being the bomb diggity beta.  
> I just can't seem to stop with the Potter quotes!  Any love for Hagrid?  
> So this was late, for the “stereotype” prompt anyway, but eh.  Next time -- “Ribbon”... well she did say something about a present.  
> I’m sure I’m forgetting someone or something, but I wanted to get this chapter up tonight, so I’ll stop here.  
> I’m glad my life isn’t as exciting as Fitzsimmons’.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

A lot had happened tonight.

Fitz let out a deep breath as he meticulously placed his bits and bobs into storage tubs, then sloppily swept his laundry off the duvet onto the floor.  He needed the slow oblivion of sleep the way a dying man needs forgiveness, but even wrapped in an analgesic fog, his brain wouldn’t numb.  A quick reel of the night’s events played through his head like a deranged line drawing on the edges of a flip-book.

Simmons, once she’d calmed down, had reached Kimberly by phone.  Their argument wound its way through the lab and the hall, like a gray hair through a braid, in and out of Fitz’s earshot while he held his own hand in a pain-tolerance Purgatory.  It was equal parts bar brawl and confessional, Simmons’ frustration battling the top-secret nature of the discussion, and at the end, Fitz knew he should have been satisfied just to learn he did _not_ have some creepy alien flesh-eating bacteria pitching a campsite in his arm.   _Just your standard Wednesday-evenin’ monkey bite, y’know, not the_ _**weird** _ _kind._

From what he had overheard, Fitz gathered that Pacino was part of a mind-control experiment, but the details were sparse at best.  The bulk of the girls’ phone altercation had been spent flinging blame back and forth like-- well, like they were in a monkey cage.  But Fitz did have to admire Simmons’ dedication to wrangling a favorable deal out of Kibbles.  He knew she was at risk herself, but it baked warm cookies in his chest to think that she was keeping _him_ off the hotseat, even if it meant bucking the system more than she normally would.  Listening to her alternately accuse and cajole, it became apparent that once Simmons got into the minutiae of an undertaking, once she was invested enough to anticipate challenges and find workarounds, she quickly reached a tipping point past which she wouldn’t consider abandoning ship.  This was so like Fitz’s own process in the lab, he briefly blipped into the ridiculous notion that she’d somehow claimed a piece of him and was keeping it alive in herself, like some soul-weaving enchantress from one of his trading card games.

-o-

‘ _We won’t face any disciplinary action,’_ she’d said, eyes dark, ‘ _but I’d steer clear of Kibbles or Bits for a time.’_

‘ _And Pacino?’_

She’d simply looked at him, tight-lipped, and managed a shadow of a smile.  ‘ _Let’s get you some painkillers.’_

-o-

 

The next day, Pacino was gone from the lab.

A train collided with his lungs when he noticed the absence.  Sweet Pea was in her spot, wide eyes darting, and Fitz put his hand up to the bars, a silent offer of commiseration.  She didn’t reach for his fingers today, didn’t squeeze them between her own.  Instead she tipped her tiny forehead against the warmth of his skin, drawing back to look pitifully up at him and open her mouth in a shapeless cry before huddling back in with her companions.

Fitz couldn’t do it.  He couldn’t sit here today and try to work on something new, not with the crab pinching his arm and the scorpion stabbing his heart every time he looked at Pacino’s empty corner.  A devastating English lilt tapped its way into his subcutaneous.

“Come on.  Let’s take the drones and go to your lab for a change, yeah?”

Fitz would readily admit he didn’t know everything that went through Simmons’ -- _or any girl’s_ \-- head, but he did occasionally think _she_ might be able to read _his_ mind.

 

* * *

 

Simmons saw it in his face the minute he came into the room, his eyes scanning the Zakadel cage and coming up short.   _Oh, Fitz._  How he could be so strong about certain things, and let others pit him like an olive… it might not entirely make sense, but damned if it didn’t poke the badger in her stomach to see him upset.  

“Come on.  Let’s take the drones and go to your lab for a change, yeah?”

His eyes flickered to hers, a grateful well of watercolor, and he helped her gather everything they’d need to put the wings through their paces.  She hadn’t been to the engineering labs yet, so this would be her first journey into the gizzards of Fitz’s world.  It was all a bit thrilling, like sneaking backstage at a concert, or flirting with a younger man.

-o-

“Good idea, this,”  Fitz tugged at the back of his neck as they entered the observation deck to the wind tunnel.  “I, er, I like to come here sometimes.  When things are bad.”

She’d only meant to get them out of the monkey lab, and thought this project would be a welcome occupation for Fitz’s hands.  “Why here?”

“The noise.  The wind blocks everythin’ out.  It’s one of the few places I can’t hear myself think.”  He chuckled humorlessly, jaw and brow still heavy with rain.  “Although I will say, my thoughts are generally fascinatin’.”

-o-

Fitz crouched in the middle of the model testing area, mounting the drone securely on the center stand, then crawled back to the viewing room and set the controls to turn on the fans.  Smoke lines ribboned over the wings, sliding over and under in a silky ballet, swirling into alternate paths as the myomers activated and morphed.  The lab’s calibration equipment screeched a readout of their data onto antiquated perforated paper.  Too soon, the tunnel fell silent, measurements stored.  Sliding open an access panel, Fitz crept in and dismantled the drone, then replaced everything back into his case with the usual efficiency.   _This is it._   This was all that had been stopping them from declaring their first project complete.  It was bittersweet, and like a last bite of cake, Simmons felt a compulsion to savor the moment.

“Interesting,” she indicated a sign-up sheet for an airplane-building contest, tacked up on an aerospace bulletin board.  “Could you enter with that,” she gestured at the tech crate, implying the mini-plane inside, “or is it for new work only?”

“Agh… well, it hardly matters now.  There’re only so many spots available to compete, and they were full hours after that list went up.”  He was doing his best to school the disappointment in his eyes.  It didn’t work.  “Maybe next year.”

Simmons nodded mutely.   _Poor Fitz._  It seemed like very little was going his way.  She tried again.

“So… er… thank you.  For letting me sniffle all over your shirt yesterday.”

Fitz grimaced squeamishly at the reminder of her mucus.  “What are friends for,” he shrugged, embarrassed.   _As if I’d know._  She’d never felt that comfortable with anyone outside her family.  She could still barely believe she’d let herself fall apart on Fitz.  But she knew the reason.

“ _Best_ friends,” she corrected, tossing out a quick smile and an elbow to match.

Fitz grinned, finally, breaking out of his doldrums like sunlight glinting off a muddy marble.  “Yeah?  Because I-- I mean, you’re _my_ \-- well, good.”  His ears were turning red in that adorable way that made her want to smush his cheeks together.  She’d settle for seeing his smile a little longer.

“I got you something.”  She wrinkled her nose to keep expectations low.  “It’s nothing, really.”

Fitz’s head tilted, puzzled, while Simmons retrieved the rectangular bundle from her satchel.  She _had_ gone a step above leaving it in the plastic bag and managed to find a ribbon, at least.

“ _Robot Wars?_  What’s that?”

She chewed at the inside of her cheek.  “I know you said you don’t often watch TV, but--”   _But this has Fitz all over it._ “My classmate recommended it.  It was on the BBC a few years back.  You’ve really never seen this?”

“No…”  Fitz’s face was brewing a grumblestorm as he pored over the DVD covers, taking in every detail, and she felt her nerves start to quake.   _Why such a vinegar mouth?  Oh, he hates it._

“How the Hell did I miss _this?!_   You’d think _someone_ could’ve said, ‘Oh, Fitz, they’ve captured your bloody personality in the perfect goddamn game show, reckon you should give it a look.’”  Simmons started to relax, a smile tugging at her face while her heart resumed its normal rhythm.  “That's the danger of not having any fr--” he flushed, “--time.  From skippin’ ahead so much in school.”

“Well, I skipped a few things too, apparently.  So we’ll watch it together?”

“Damn right we will.  C’mon, mine’s closer.  And I have snacks.”

Simmons laughed, a round, full cadence.  “Of course you have.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was late, of course, but was my nod to “Ribbon” a.k.a. the last prompt of Fitzsimmons week.  Heck, as far as I’m concerned it’s always Fitzsimmons week :-)
> 
> The wind tunnel stuff may not be 100% accurate, but it’s probably close enough (I’ve never been to one though).  They come in various sizes and they sometimes use smoke to draw “lines” to show the aerodynamics.  The one I’ve envisioned is somewhat long but not quite tall enough for a man to stand in, so mostly for testing models like Fitzsimmons’ project.  
> As usual, thanks to amandajoyce118! :-)
> 
> So… my life might be imploding around me just a skosh.  So I guess it’s a good thing there’s only one or two chapters left.  Anyway, let’s wrap this sucka up, y’all!  *does the little finger twirl that means “wrap it up”*


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

 

On their way out of the engineering buildings, a broad-shouldered cadet caught Simmons’ eye.  He was fit, for the Sci-Tech standard, with raven hair that fell in waves over his ears and long, full eyelashes.  He looked familiar, too, but she was fairly sure he wasn’t in any of her classes.   _I would have noticed this young John Stamos._  It must just be the Hollywood resemblance making her think she knew him.  Until he sauntered over.   

“Hey, lady,” he said, stopping in front of her.  “You still sellin’ Axe body spray?”

 _Oh, my giddy aunt._   It was the chesty man from the gym.  “Hmmm?” she stalled, her voice squeaking slightly.  “Yes!  Of course!  I am… that.  But-- dash it all, I haven’t got any inventory on me at the moment.  I mean, not _on_ me, though I suppose it is a sort of perfume, so it _could_ be on me, but it’s for men-- well, _you’re_ a man… obviously,” she tittered, “and you see, I’m a gir-- Fitz?” she interrupted herself, turning to her partner who was staring incredulously at the exchange.  “Care to jump in here?”

His eyebrows went up with the corner of his mouth.  “Oh, you’re doin’ a bang-up job on your own.”  It was almost too bad Simmons didn’t like violence, or she could’ve slapped Fitz’s dry little smirk right off.  Although she never would slap him, not really.   _And his smirky face is rather cute._

“Oh… uh, okay,” the heartthrob sidled away, tipping his chin in farewell.  “Seeya, Fitz.”

“Tim.”  Fitz inclined his head in return.

When he was out of earshot, Simmons’ hands flew up and down as if shaking out a trash can liner.  She hissed into Fitz’s ear, “You _know_ him?!”

That one eyebrow was still ladder-high.  “Not as well as you seem to.”

Simmons’ face burned, threatening to melt like a Nazi opening the Ark of the Covenant.

_This is all Fitz’s fault._

 

 

* * *

 

When Fitz said he had snacks, he really meant candy.   _Who doesn’t?_   Simmons, for one, seemed to think _snacks_ meant celery sticks and hummus, and was a bit thrown by the idea of knocking back chocolates and gummies for the next couple of hours.  Feeling the burden of the gracious host, for the first time in his life Fitz wished he kept “real food” around.  So when Herrick emerged from his room and started sniffing around their fun, it seemed only polite to invite him to sit and watch, especially knowing he kept a few packs of boring plain organic popcorn in his desk.

 _This isn’t bad,_ Fitz mused as he combined a handful of Skittles with a handful of popcorn.   _It’s practically a salad._ Skittles were fruit, right?   As it turned out, Herrick hadn’t seen _Robot Wars_ either -- something about being an adult with a life -- so the viewing party quickly devolved into a dirty game of high-stakes candy-gambling (an activity in which Herrick seemed disturbingly comfortable) each of them trying to guess which bot would win.  The choice of currency felt grossly unfair -- _the Hell are they betting_ _**my** _ _candy for_ \-- but mum had taught him to share; so, whenever he lost a piece, he became a real Meryl Streep, even if perhaps he did use his specialized knowledge to beat the odds in a bet or two.   _And I’m pretty sure Simmons is only tryin’ to win those bonbons to keep me from eatin’ them all._   He chuckled at her concern for his teeth.   _She’s such a mother hen._   He often found it an irritating quality of hers, but at the moment Fitz was in need of some fussing over.

At the end of the night, Fitz had shamelessly pressed his advantage and won back most of the sugar stash, although Simmons and Herrick weren’t without their gains.

“Looks like you stole a few kisses,” Herrick commented easily, sounding for all the world as if he were just making appropriate conversation.

Both scientists reddened simultaneously, blurting out denials.

“What do y’--”  “We never--”  Until they followed Herrick’s index finger to the small foil-wrapped chocolates on the table and caught the quirk of his lip and eye that meant he was winding them up.   _Of course._   Fitz cursed his gullibility, especially since he himself had spent a good portion of the evening consciously trying _not_ to reference that particular treat.

“Haha,” he groused sarcastically, “you’re a regular Richard Pryor.  Anyway, I’d rather she get them than you.”   _Ach._   Naturally he’d gone and made it worse, if Simmons’ skin tone was any indication.  To his credit, Herrick didn’t prolong the joke, but loosed one of his deep guffaws and stretched, gathering his bounty and heading to his room to hide the sweets away.  Fitz’s fingers twitched slightly as he contemplated various plans for recovery, none of which he would ever implement.

Talking of taking things that didn’t belong to you… _I s’pose I should give Simmons back her pyjamas._   Although, he was sorely tempted to keep them for himself.  The first night, he’d intended to return them -- _yes, I forgot, I_ _**have** _ _been busy you know_ \-- and he smiled at the memory of finding the stitched initials in the tag.   _**J.S.** _   He was happy enough knowing there was no pantsless -- _ahem,_ _**trouser** _ _less_ \-- ex-boyfriend leaving his impact on Simmons’ drawers -- _phrasing, Jesus!_ \-- but Fitz still liked the comfort of actually getting into Simmons’ trousers himself -- _take your mind out of the gutter_ .  They were soft and warm, like her, and they felt nice and snuggly on his… erm, legs.   _Like her?_   Well, he wouldn’t know.

“This was fun,” Fitz yawned, getting to his feet and popping the DVD back into its case.  Simmons moved automatically to start clearing the coffee table, echoing his sentiment.

“It was…” she smiled.  “Perhaps we’ll make a TV buff of you yet.”

“Mighty fine idea,” Herrick chimed in, coming back to help them clean up popcorn bowls, beer bottles, and candy wrappers.  “Shoot, you get a little more pop-culture know-how, I’ll even let ya join my bar trivia team.”  He plucked one of Fitz’s cardigans off the arm of the loveseat.  “For example, did you know Mr. Rogers’ mom knitted all his sweaters by hand?  One of the most beloved entertainers of all time…” he trailed off, chuckling.

Simmons had stopped midway to the sink and was staring from Herrick to Fitz.  “ _That_ is adorable.”  She had her oh-look-a-puppy expression that probably meant she wanted to sign adoption forms and ruffle up his hair.

 _I’m not adorable.  Stop._  He scoffed.  “I think y’ mean sensible.  And it probably made his mum happy.”  He chucked an empty bottle into the bin with superfluous force.  “And plenty of grown men wear cardigans, thank you very much.”

Simmons was still poking dopey hazel eyes his way, and it was bloody distracting.  He turned his attention to his roommate.  “When did you go to pub trivia night, anyway?”  Herrick wasn’t an idiot, he knew now that had been a false first impression, but Fitz hadn’t imagined the older cadet would favor that sort of activity.

“Oh, musta been… couple’a weeks back?  I went with Jonesy and that new fella he’s been hangin’ around with.  Chilton?  Chesworth?  Some dumb name.”

Fitz and Simmons looked at each other, eyes expanding into bonfires.  “Chester?”  Simmons squeaked out.

“Sounds ‘bout right.  Dude was kind of a tool.”  Herrick tossed the last bit of foil and paper and headed for his bedroom.  “Well, you kids have fun, y’hear?” Herrick winked suggestively.  As he tapped the wall in parting and shut the door, Fitz didn’t even have the energy to be embarrassed.  He fell back onto the couch, his jaw worked soundlessly for a double moment.

“Chet?  He’s--”

“Jonesy’s friend.  Or his accomplice, at least.”  Her face was resigned as she shook her head slowly.  “This whole time, Fitz, and we didn’t spot it.”

“But he’s not anythin’ _like_ Jonesy!  Chet’s had a rough go; gettin’ harrassed for years by guys like that!  Why would he--”   _Why wouldn’t he?_   A misty voice in the depths of Fitz’s subconscious niggled towards the answer.  All those years of teasing?  It only made sense that Chet would latch on to the first person to offer him any kind of satisfaction.  Getting to lash out at _anyone_ , reinventing himself in Jonesy’s image, must’ve seemed like a pretty sweet deal to someone with a taste for revenge.   _It could’ve been me_.

“Fitz…” she breathed out patiently, and, he thought, a little patronizing.  “He needs to be stopped.  You have to accept that.”

Fitz’s guts churned their objection.   _I’ll be bossy too, when it’s important._  “ No, Simmons,  we’re not fightin’ him.  No-- _retaliation_.  That’s what started this whole mess and now Pacino’s--” he choked off, fists slamming into the coffee table as he blinked away a sudden onion peel.

Then her fragile hand was on his shoulder blade, rubbing a calming path up and down his arm, wind erosion to his anger.  His voice was desiccated when it finally crumbled out of his throat.  “I let him trick me, Simmons.  Why didn’t I see him for what he was?” The way Chet had kept asking about his prank ideas, pushing suggestions at him -- but the older man had sounded so confident, and Fitz had felt like he had something to prove.  “How could I’ve been so stupid?”

“You wanted to believe in him.  That’s not stupid.”   _I was tryin’ to be like_ _**you** _ _.  Friendly.  Helpful.  Compassionate._   To impress her, to make up for the way he’d behaved in the past.   _Even if she’ll never look at me like that guy at the gym._

Her hand stilled on his elbow.  “And I _wasn’t_ saying we should start another prank war.  Fitz,” she tugged his arm so he would turn to her, before settling her fingers back in her lap, “we’ve got to report him as a bad seed.”

Fitz pushed the air out of his chest.  Knowing she was right -- _Saint Jemma, always right_ \-- didn’t stop him from hoping there was another way.  “Just-- let me talk to him first, okay?  If he’ll turn in his schematics for the more dangerous machines, or confess to helpin’ Jonesy prank the dorms… S.H.I.E.L.D.’ll go easier on him.”  Maybe she had the truth of it.  Maybe some people _were_ evil.  But he had to try.

Simmons’ pitying look was both a hug and a vise.  “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, Fitz was withdrawn -- in class, at lunch, during conversation.  She knew he must be struggling with what to say to Chet, so she let him have his moment to think.  But when she realized she’d left her phone off that evening, she was aghast at the texts she’d missed.

  
From: Fitz (18:16 PM) no dice w chet.  u were right  
From: Fitz (18:17 PM) says if i report him hes tellin shld i pulled pranks too  
From: Fitz (18:19 PM) & he made some pranks off designs i showed him  
From: Fitz (18:20 PM) so i guess hes blackmailing me. this didnt go the way i hoped  
From: Fitz (18:28 PM) think i’ll skip revising tonight.  have fun. c u tomorrow

She checked the time.  7:00 PM, over a half hour since the last one sent.   _Bloody Hell._  She hurriedly typed out a concerned message, hoping Fitz wouldn’t think she was ignoring him.  Based on the evidence in her palm, that was the first thing he’d assume, and the last thing he needed.

 _Chester._   Even thinking his name made her face twist into a snarl.  The man was an opportunist, plain and simple, and a despicable one at that.   _It’s so obvious._   He’d been using Jonesy to take out his anger on the world, and when Fitz dropped into his lap, he’d goaded _him_ towards violence as a vicarious pushback against his bullies.  And he thought he was so clever, setting up Jonesy and Fitz to make sure he’d never get in trouble.   _We’ll just see about that._  She could tell from Fitz’s use of the first person that he’d nobly left her name out of it again.  Well, Fitz could try to protect her like some warrior prince, but he ought to expect by now that she’d do the same for him.

Thankfully, _she’d_ been under no illusions as to Chester’s inherent goodness.  And she always did like to be prepared.

 _Okay._   Simmons shook out her arms and looked in the mirror, her best De Niro impression sneering back.   _Be a mobster, Jemma.  You can do this._

The phone rang four times in her hands -- which were shaking like a street-drug side effect -- before the villainous Sci-Tech cadet picked up.

“Hello, ‘Chet’?” she bit out acidly.   _Hard.  Tough.  For Fitz’s sake._ “ You don’t know me.  But I had a chat with your ex-girlfriend Anita, and she had some rather, er, _interesting_ things to say about your less legitimate on-campus endeavors.”

There was a long pause.  Simmons’ fingers drummed anxiously against her hip, but she forced herself to wait him out.   _Like a police interrogator.  A scowly one._

“Whaddaya want?” came the nasal reply at last.

“Plenty.”  Her grip tightened on the phone as her voice steadied.  “Here’s how this is going to work…”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the last chapter!  In appreciation for all you lovely people’s support, I’m going to let y’all have a say in whether you want Pacino alive or dead.
> 
> That’s true, about Mr. Rogers.  
> Throwin’ out an Indiana Jones reference this time!  Uhh… take that, Harry Potter?
> 
> A million times over, thanks to my beta amandajoyce118 for putting up with me.
> 
> If you liked this, I am planning a couple of stories based off of this fic.  For instance, I have a two-shot in the works, set a couple months after this ends, and I’ll probably be doing a one-shot about Fitz and Jonesy going out for GTL the first time.  So stay tuned for those!


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.  
> So I may have been a little mean… I apologize in advance.

 

Simmons ground into her forehead with the heels of her hands.   _What am I doing?_   If someone had even suggested, two months before, that she’d be covering up lab accidents, or making threats -- notwithstanding whether she had any intention of actually following through -- she’d have told them they were off their trolley.  Yes, she’d had her moments of rebellion -- _that brief flirtation with a townie, minor mischief with the sibs, the tattoo after graduation_ \-- but as a rule, Jemma Simmons didn’t rock the boat, she deferred to authority, she was a good girl.   _It makes me feel nice._

And then there was Fitz, who scattered light and shade into her corners like a prism in the window, speckling her black-and-white world with not just gray, but charcoal, and heather, and stormcloud, and dove.  It was hard to describe the cannonball in her throat when he put himself at risk, or how it sent her into an ursine, car-flipping, scour-the-earth mentality when she saw him in pain.  Simmons started to understand what Fitz had meant when he called her naïve.  The world was complicated, S.H.I.E.L.D. more so than most places.   _And sometimes you do unthinkable things for the people you care about._

 _She_ certainly had.  The acrid memory of the gun in her hand still popped up every now and then like burnt toast.  The only thing that piled blankets on that shuddering image was Fitz’s promise to build the paralysis pistol with her.  Not for the first time, and not for the last, Simmons wondered what she’d done to deserve a friend like Fitz, marveling at the sheer happenstance that had thrown them in each other’s way.  Thinking back to that morning in Solomon’s lecture, it was shocking how easily she could have passed Fitz by if she’d kept to her usual routine.   _Who could’ve guessed that being late to class would make me so happy?_

 

* * *

 

Fitz rested his elbows on the cool metal table and his cheeks in his hands.   _What was I thinking?_   One broken gadget, one conversation, and he was ready to defend the guy.   _This is why I shouldn’t trust anyone._  He should have learned his lesson with Doug.  Everyone would’ve been better off if he’d just stayed in his lab and built robots and never tried to make friends.  He looked again at the phone message in his hand.

From: Simmons (19:01 PM) Where are you?  Are you okay?

 _I should answer that._   He should have done a while ago, but he just couldn’t work up the nerve to call her.  Simmons would be kind, she would assuage his blame, and he simply couldn’t support that right now.   _I’m a failure._   Fitz knew he was being indulgent, dwelling in self-pity, but he’d just seen his good intentions blow up in his face.  He’d botched the attempt at giving Chet a second chance, making everything worse in the process.  Simmons had witnessed a little of Fitz’s self-defeat the night before and hadn’t seemed thrown -- _she’s forgiving to a fault, that’s true enough._ But if she saw him like this, she’d be disgusted.

He slid his arms down and crossed them, dropping his forehead onto his sleeves and marking the way the table was stealing heat from his nose.  The wind tunnel in the adjacent space roared in his ears like an unleashed dam, but tonight, it wasn’t enough.  His thoughts sank into the Marianas trench.

After a pause, or a lifetime of pauses, he heard the door open.  Something inside Fitz knew it was her -- _I did tell her about the noise in here_ \-- so he didn’t feel the need to lift his face, not with weariness weighing an ox yoke around his neck.  She slid into the chair next to him.   _Okay, that had best be Simmons._  He wouldn’t suffer some rando to just plop themselves down at his side like they owned the place.  Fitz peeked out one side of his cocoon, the sight of her cinnamon hair and angel eyes filling him like a measuring bowl.

“Jemma?”  He couldn’t care about formalities at the moment.  “What…” he swallowed and made himself ask the question he’d been dreading for the past three days, “what happened with Pacino?”

 _He’s dead._   Fitz had no illusions -- he was a scientist too, after all -- and he knew what normally happened to lab animals, especially in an experiment gone wrong.  It was one of the many reasons he’d never wanted to pursue biology himself.   _Dead._  But he needed to hear her say it.  He raised his head, letting her mahogany gaze destroy him.

“Oh, Fitz.”  She turned her face away, spoke to the floor.  “Tabitha told me earlier-- I’m so sorry… after his chip malfunctioned, he presented too much of a risk.”  A slow, creeping fog tendriled into his chest, hooking brambles around his lungs.  “He’s gone, Fitz.”

There it was.  An anvil fell into Fitz’s guts, splattering them onto the walls of his stomach.  “But he was bein’ controlled… _he_ didn’t want to attack Sweet Pea.  It’s not-- that’s not--” he entombed his eyes in his hands.   _Don’t cry._ By some miracle, Simmons hadn’t seen him cry yet.   _Don’t cry, dammit._  His damp palms begged to differ.

“I know.”  Her fingers snaked around his neck, petting down his curls and his aches.  “It’s not fair, I know.”

It almost didn’t seem right for her touch to reassure him, not when he wanted his outsides to match his insides, but he let himself quicksand into the feeling before he could think to stop.  Fitz cried without a big production -- quietly, admirably, his cascading tears the only visible sign of his emotional tourbillion.   _He’d_ done this.  He’d built the machine that led to Pacino’s death -- and for what?   _A prank?_   Pranks were supposed to be funny.  There was nothing funny about this.  Whether it had been an accident or not, Simmons was right.   _We only have the options we create._  Knowing that she was in his corner, helping him develop safer tech and making him a better person -- it didn’t make the monsters disappear, exactly, but it forced them backwards into a skittering crouch.  With a sniff, Fitz wiped away the last vestiges of his melancholy on his hoodie sleeves.

The gentle press of Simmons’ hand was a hearthstone at the nape of his neck.  The contact had been soothing while he needed it, but now that his mood had climbed a bit out of the primordial muck, it was having the opposite effect, waking up his nerve endings with every delectable scratch of her nails against his scalp.  


He suddenly had a rather wicked idea.  “Simmons...”  It came out like a growl.

Her fingers stilled.  “Yes?”

Fitz caught her hand in his before she could withdraw it, and stood, pulling her up from her chair.  The look he gave her was positively rakish.  “Enough mopin’ around.  Let’s have some fun.”  


-o-

 

Fitz beamed up at Simmons, his hair mussed and eyes twinkling.  “That was amazin’.”  Grinning at her disapproval, he crawled the rest of the way out of the hatch.

“Standing guard in case my best friend gets swept into a vent is _not_ my idea of fun,” she said prissily, twisting her hands together.   _Best friend._  Fitz thought he might never get tired of hearing that.

“You’ve got to try it, Simmons.”

“No,” she protested rigidly, “I’m uncomfortable enough being an accessory to _your_ flagrant disregard for safety.  They make these rules for a reason, you know.”

Fitz snorted his opinion.  “You had your finger on the kill switch the whole time; it was perfectly safe.  And I’ve always wanted to try that, I just never had anyone I trusted enough to help me before.”

Her eyes softened as a coral tint invaded her cheeks.  “Well.  I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Still floating on adrenaline, the only response he had was a silly chuckle and a goofy look.  He patted his hair in a futile attempt to bring down his messy, blown-apart curls.

“So,” she smiled at his efforts, “this seems as good a time as any to tell you that Chester’s had a change of heart about turning himself in to the Academy disciplinary board.”  


Fitz was fairly sure he looked like a slow loris.  “Wha- what?  Simmons, how--”

“--and since they don’t allow people on academic probation to enter aeroplane-building contests,” she nudged her chin toward the bulletin board, “I suggest you contact Professor Vanlowe as soon as possible, before anyone else gets word there’s a spot open.  I hear the top prize is a chance to design part of the next airborne mobile command station.”  She was nodding encouragingly.  “Wouldn’t that be exciting?”

“Of course…” _What is happening?_  “It’s every S.H.I.E.L.D. engineer’s dream, but what did you--”

“You know, I think perhaps I _will_ take a spin in the wind tunnel after all!”  Simmons cut in hastily, pushing herself through the access door.  “What do I do?  Just hold on to this pedestal?”

Bemused, Fitz shook his head.   _All right, then._  She could have her little secrets.  “Now who’s disregardin’ safety, eh?”  He crept in after her, handing over a pair of goggles. The space was cramped, but sufficient for the two of them, especially short and slim as they were.

“Lay flat on your belly,” he instructed.  When she complied, he pulled out a couple of canvas straps and clips, tethering her to the center stand so that if anything did happen, she’d have an extra layer of protection.   _That’s S.H.I.E.L.D.’s founding principle, after all, protection_.  

He bent over her, gripping at a buckle and tugging to get her attention.  “Simmons.”  She twisted, coating him in that impossible dulce de leche stare.  “You don’t have to tell me what happened with Chet, just… You didn’t get yourself in a bind, did you?”   _Wording._  He tightened the makeshift harness around her more securely.

She tilted her head in reassurance.  “I’m fine, Fitz.  It’s sorted, trust me.  Please?”

He breathed out a huff of acquiescence.  Fitz knew he would do anything to keep Simmons from harm.  And he was starting to realize that she felt the same about him.

 

* * *

 

Simmons had never experienced exhilaration like this.  The intoxicating weightlessness, the drag and plummet of the air blasting around her -- it was danger, it was thrill, it was the sheer, unencumbered bliss of being alive.   _I might have to take up skydiving, someday._   She briefly wished she had Fitz in the tunnel with her; for one dreamy glimmer, she felt him there, anchoring her with his warm breath against her back, both of them soaring in concert with her tumbling heart.  She was _flying_ .   _No wonder Kate Winslet fell so hard for Leo._ But of course, _her_ Leo was out in the viewing area, smiling broadly as he listened to her hoot and shriek in childish abandon.

Far too soon, Fitz had turned off the fans and was helping her out of the restraints.  “Much as I’d love to let you flail around til mornin’, we’re shavin’ it a bit close.  I’m surprised no one’s come in yet.”

She rolled her eyes, playfully disparaging, as she pushed flyaway strands off her brow.  “Please, Fitz.  Who does lab work on a Friday night?”  She tucked the tip of her tongue between her teeth as her cheeks stretched, letting joy and laughter twirl across her face like a flock of swans taking wing.

He squinted at her implication.  “Well, perhaps next week we can try out the Boiler Room, but for now…” His beckoning _chop-chop_ hands left no alternatives for delay.

“Alright, I’m coming.”  She scooted out of the wind tunnel and back into the observation room, letting Fitz grip her forearm and haul her up to her feet.  Giddy, her legs still weak with quicksilver and whirlpools, she fell forward into his hold and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you for sharing this with me.”

 

* * *

 

The night was pleasantly cool as Fitz walked Simmons back to her dorm, chatting in low tones about anything from solar panel efficiency to which of them was Batman and which was Robin -- _It’s me, FYI.  I’m Batman._   He basked in the simple pleasure of having Jemma wrapped around his arm, her chamomile voice expounding on every topic like an unstoppable Snapple cap, the vanilla-spice scent of her hair wafting up to tickle his nose.  Keeping her close like this, knowing she’d seen him at his worst and hadn’t walked away, built a pillow fort inside his rib cage where he could cuddle away his formerly lonely nights.  To Hell with past mistakes; they were in each other’s lives now, for good.  A partnership that would help them both to _be_ good and to _do_ good.  


Good, yes.  But infinitely better together.

  


THE END

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

EPILOGUE  


Passing under a large walnut tree in the East Mall after dropping Simmons off, Fitz heard the branches shake under the stress of a particularly large squirrel, or a cat, or an army of squirrels and cats, or some mutant S.H.I.E.L.D. crossbreed thereof.  At the perimeter of his vision, something pale and drapey fluttered to the ground, and as curiosity swindled his subconscious, he paused.  Hopping off the concrete walk to traipse precariously over the knobby roots, Fitz finally reached the mystery item.  And gasped.

  
It was Pacino’s towel cape.

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, as they say, is that.  When I started this leviathan (thinking “doopy doo, this’ll be the longest fic I’ve done”) please keep in mind my longest fic at that point was about 6K words.  So I really couldn’t have anticipated that this would happen, and I almost feel like I birthed a third child.  I guess it probably doesn’t seem like much to a seasoned writer, but considering that three months ago I’d never written anything as an adult that wasn’t for school, I really wasn’t expecting it to go like this.
> 
> I hope y’all have had fun reading.  Please leave me a note if you did!  :-)  Also, I’m (a little?) sorry for tricking you about Pacino’s death.
> 
> Next on the docket is probably going to be one final chapter for my jealousy fic, Green, so check that out if if you’re interested!
> 
> If you’d like to read more about the Zakadel monkeys, you should head check out [TheLateNightStoryteller](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/5373487/)'s latest story, Carnivorous Plants.  Actually, you should check out all her stories, particularly if you love Fitzsimmons -- she’s an exclusive Fitz-Simmons writer, like me, and satisfyingly prolific for those days when you feel like there’s just not enough of this ship around.
> 
> I’m very happy to thank my incredible beta, [amandajoyce118](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/1852741/), who writes like Adele sings, and my Britishness-consultants, especially [starbrightnights](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starbrightnights/pseuds/starbrightnights) for being just too fantastic.  I really don’t know if my story would have been any good without the help of these kind and lovely people.  And of course, my husband, who will never see this, but who really is like my very own Fitz!  (*Nick Cage impression*  That’s high praise…)
> 
> Oh, and while this wasn’t a songfic, I guess I could mention that I was frequently inspired by “At the Beginning” by Richard Marx and Donna Lewis.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who’s been following, commenting, and supporting this story!
> 
> (Oof.  All that rambling and now I need a nap.)


End file.
